


With Truth and Loyalty

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Archery, Broken Bones, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Devotion, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Guards, Hand Jobs, Holding Hands, M/M, Princes & Princesses, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Isn’t that what rank’s good for, to get out of doing the boring stuff?''Oh yes, your highness' Takami says, his voice level and his eyes fixed on the unbroken white of Glory’s coat. 'You’ve always had great success with that in your position, isn’t that so?'" Prince Haruto has spent years struggling to meet the expectations of his position, but at least the captain of the royal guard is always ready to follow him anywhere.





	1. Sympathy

Haruto used to like royal audiences.

When he was a child, they were an exercise in boredom, one he was often excused from on plea of being young enough that running through the garden with a nursemaid to look after him was a better pursuit than being kept quiet and presented like a doll for the petitioners to coo over as the initial introduction to whatever plea they wished to put forth. As he grew older and gained sufficient patience to be left to sit quietly alongside his mother’s throne they became a requirement, something else to occupy a portion of his day alongside the endless array of trainings and studies that befit the crown prince. At first they were just another one of the more-or-less dull tasks that formed the structure of his life, more interesting for the range of clothes the petitioners wore and the warmth of the smiles they gave him than anything else; but as Haruto grew older his interest shifted too, until he was paying as much attention to what the petitioners were requesting as to how they were dressed. It’s a fascinating process for him; the nobles report a whole range of difficulties, with their peers as much as with managing the estates they are held responsible for, while the few commoners who travel to the palace often carry requests that come from an entire village at once and speak as a single representative for dozens. The problems are insoluble, or often seem so to Haruto; but it’s interesting to hear them anyway, fascinating to immerse himself in half-formed daydreams of what his life would be like if he had been born to different parents or to a different status, of what problems and difficulties he might encounter that are wholly lacking in his personal life now. It’s an interesting exercise, one he finds far more intriguing than the dry lessons on governing his tutors present for him; but that pleasure fades over the years as well, as Haruto finds himself more and more often expected to provide solutions to the problems that seem so impossible to him. It’s his father’s frowns that greet him now rather than the petitioners’ smiles, and by the time he’s fully of age Haruto has come to dread the regular audiences rather than look forward to them. It’s an exercise in failure, as far as he’s concerned, with a demand for answers he doesn’t know how to give no matter how hard he tries, until today the passing time feels like a countdown for the frustrated explosion Haruto knows is coming for him from the strain along his father’s jaw and the tap of his father’s finger against the arm of his throne. By the time the last noble is curtseying her way to the door Haruto can feel his shoulders hunching around his ears, can feel his whole body bracing for the condemnation that is about to hit. The door swings shut, the soft drag of its motion against the floor marking the close of the public audience; and from Haruto’s left there’s a heavy sigh, a weight of resignation marking itself against the air as his father lets his shoulders slump out of royal composure.

“Haruto,” he says, his voice as heavy as the angle of his shoulders. When he lifts a hand it’s to press his fingers to his forehead in a motion Haruto recognizes as telltale for one of the piercing headaches his father often complains of. “What am I to do with you?”

Haruto flinches, feels his face going hot with shame. “I’m sorry, sir.”

His father’s far hand lifts, his fingers flicking as if to scatter the shape of Haruto’s apology. “Your embarrassment is hardly my goal,” he says, and then lifts his head from the brace of his fingers to look up at Haruto. There’s no anger in his face, none of the set jaw or creased brow that Haruto had been afraid of seeing; just what is far worse, the weight of disappointment at his father’s lips and heavy frustration behind his eyes. “I don’t wish this to be a punishment for you. I meant for it to be a chance for you to see your subjects, to familiarize yourself with their struggles and their perspectives to gain a better eye for what support you can offer them when they are in need.”

“I do see them,” Haruto starts. “I know them. It’s--”

“It’s ineffective,” his father cuts him off, his voice still steady and even but heavy enough that it stills Haruto’s protest to complete silence. “You knew them as well as this at thirteen, Haruto, and yet you are no better at helping them now than you were then.” He’s still gazing up with the heavy shadows of resigned disappointment behind his eyes; Haruto can feel his whole face burning with shame, can feel his throat knotting with misery. “I can hardly expect you to find a solution of any kind even with myself and your mother here to guide you through each step. What have you been doing over all these years if not learning how to provide remedy to our people’s struggles? Is this a show to you, that you take amusement from their trouble without the desire to see them to resolution?”

Haruto’s throat is so tight he can barely breathe around the pressure; his eyes are aching with the heat of emotion. “It’s not a show,” he manages, forcing the words past the rough edge his tight throat puts on them. “I don’t...it’s not that I don’t care.”

His father sighs again and drops his head to the support of his hand. “I know,” he says, the words coming heavy with more resignation than comfort. “You have no lack of empathy, I know that as well as any. It’s the talent for ruling that you lack, and I do not know how to instill it in you.” Haruto opens his mouth to offer something -- apology, probably, maybe another of his fruitless promises to be better, to study harder, to make more of an effort -- but his father’s upraised hand stops the words to silence in his throat. “Take the afternoon to yourself. Unless you have a suggestion to remedy the current difficulty?” Haruto’s father looks up again, the weight of his gaze undoing any pointless attempts at comfort the other might give; Haruto shuts his mouth on the unvoiced words and shakes his head in lieu of trying to force a more coherent response past the knot in his throat.

“As I thought.” His father returns his head to his hand, shutting his eyes entirely this time as he grimaces at the pressure of the headache; Haruto’s mother frowns concern and leans over to touch his shoulder with comfort. “You’re dismissed.”

Haruto sketches out a bow -- it’s a sloppy attempt at formality, and it goes unseen in any case -- before turning on his heel and making for the doors at the back of the audience chamber rather than braving the full ceremony of the main entrance. His eyes are watering in spite of his best attempts to blink back the threat of tears, and his face is still hot with shame at his persistent failure; a formal retreat is the last thing he wants right now, even compared to his usual disinterest in it. Better to slip out the back, where he can duck his head and let the fall of his hair over his face disguise the worst of his emotion as he cuts straight through the palace halls and across the training grounds to make for the stables instead.

It’s quiet inside the walls of the royal stables. The space is large, big enough to be overwhelming and echoing if it were made of the marble and gold that so characterize the inside of the palace itself; but the space here is of necessity rather than ostentation, and the heavy wood of the walls and the beams overhead serve to fill the space with a comfortable warmth in spite of its size. The sound helps, too; dozens of horses in their stalls combine to offer a low murmur of constant noise, between the occasional whicker from a dark corner and the overlapping sounds of restless hooves shifting to a more comfortable angle. Most importantly of all, the space is almost always empty; except when the royal guard is in the midst of training exercises, Haruto is unlikely to run into anyone but the occasional groom here, and luck is enough on his side at the moment to give him a space empty of any audience but the level consideration of the animals around him for the burn of tears at his eyes. He makes his way down the aisle between the stalls, breathing hard around the threat of sobs in his throat, until he’s found his way to a familiar white coat and carefully plaited mane.

“Hey there, Glory,” Haruto says, bracing an elbow against the front of the stall as he leans at the support and offers his hand to the horse gazing calmly back at him. It’s a dramatic name, he’s always thought, it used to be enough to make him flinch with self-consciousness whenever anyone gave it voice; but years spent with his horse have been enough to grant the sound the warmth of an endearment entirely separate from the overblown drama the name originally carried. Glory lifts his head, stepping forward across the distance between them to nuzzle at Haruto’s palm, and Haruto smiles weakly and slides his hand up to pat against the horse’s nose. “You’re having a better day than I am, I hope.” Glory ducks his head to the weight of Haruto’s touch and Haruto presses harder, digging his fingers in to scratch against the short hair covering the horse’s nose. “Maybe I should just spend royal audiences in here instead. It’d do me about as much good, I think.”

There’s a rattle of sound from the entrance to the stable, wood clattering against itself as the door comes open; Haruto startles at the sound, drawing his hand back as he turns to fix his attention at the evidence of a newcomer. He’s ready to absent himself if he needs to, if it’s a contingent of new recruits or guard trainees, or even the grooms arriving to make their rounds; but it’s only one person, clad in the weight of a white cloak over much-decorated armor, and Haruto’s shoulders relax into comfort more from recognizing the dark of the other’s hair swept back into a ponytail at the back of his neck than from picking out the details of the marking of rank laid over the breast of his cloak. He lifts a hand in greeting, making the motion large enough for the other to see from over the distance between them, and then he turns back to Glory while the guard is still straightening into the formal salute he always gives in response to Haruto.

“I didn’t see you at the audience today, Captain Takami” Haruto says as the other approaches, his footsteps careful and deliberate in spite of the armor covering his chest as much for ornamentation as for protection. “Did you get caught training the newest recruits this afternoon?”

“I volunteered for it,” Takami smiles as he steps in to join Haruto at the edge of Glory’s stall. “Even the captain has to take his turn like everyone else.”

“Not all captains do,” Haruto tells him. Takami braces a hand at the edge of the stall and shrugs to urge his cloak back over one shoulder before leaning against the support and reaching out to smooth one of the plaits laid into Glory’s mane into line with the rest. “Isn’t that what rank’s good for, to get out of doing the boring stuff?”

“Oh yes, your highness” Takami says, his voice level and his eyes fixed on the unbroken white of Glory’s coat. “You’ve always had great success with that in your position, isn’t that so?”

Haruto huffs a laugh only barely carrying any humor on the sound. “Absolutely,” he says, looking back to his horse as he lets his weight slump farther forward against the support of his arm over the edge of the stall. “No problems for me. I never do anything I don’t want to.” He means it to be joking, lighthearted sarcasm to win a smile from Takami and amusement from himself; but his throat tightens at the end of the sentence, his voice breaking against that knot of emotion again, and he has to press his lips tight together and blink hard to keep his vision clear as his fingers work idle patterns across Glory’s nose.

There’s a moment of silence, then: “That bad?” Takami asks, his voice as gentle as if Haruto had delivered an entire speech of meaning. There’s no judgment in his voice, no indication of disapproval or disappointment either one; there’s just sympathy, delicate with the burden of sincerity, and Haruto’s tears give way as if Takami’s words were a dam breaking, as if the support of the other’s voice is enough all in itself to dissolve the brittle wall he was pressing himself against. He takes an inhale, feels the whole of his self-control disintegrating with the shift of air in his lungs; and then he’s tipping himself forward over his arms against the stall door to weight his forehead hard against his sleeves and breathe in a shuddering inhale against the soft fabric of his shirt. His eyes are spilling over, the heat of tears is catching at his lashes to spot against the white silk of his sleeve, but Takami doesn’t say anything and doesn’t move away. Haruto can hear the other shift next to him, can feel the weight of Takami’s gaze lingering against the back of his neck; but when the other moves it’s to set his hand carefully at Haruto’s shoulder, to tighten his fingers into a gentle grip that carries as much comfort as words could possibly do. It drains what stress is left in Haruto’s shoulders, leaves him slumped boneless against the angle of his arms in front of him while he hiccups his way through the frustration of his own failure and the sure knowledge that he is a disappointment, that all his efforts until this point have been futile in bringing him to the level he should be at, the level he _must_ be at to bear the burden of ruling that is to be his. The weight of Takami’s hand isn’t a solution, and it doesn’t make the burden any easier to bear; but it is a comfort in any case, just to have the steady weight of a sympathetic touch against Haruto’s shoulder to prove the existence of someone else in the world, to prove that he’s not as isolated as he sometimes feels he is.

Haruto wishes that all his problems could be solved so easily.


	2. Useful

Haruto’s third attempt at hitting the bullseye carved into the tree in front of him misses the trunk entirely.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he groans, letting the bow swing down to his side while he tips his head up and back to offer frustration to the sky. “I am _never_ going to get this right.”

Takami’s huff of an exhale is more laughter than agreement. “You’re doing fine, your highness” he soothes, shifting to get up from the rock he’s been sitting against. “The bow’s bigger than what you’re used to and this is only your second time trying it, you can’t expect everything to carry over precisely.”

“I suppose so,” Haruto agrees, but the admission comes unwillingly, the words dragging to petulance over his own frustration with his poor performance. Takami is moving towards the tree to collect the missed arrows; he twists two of them free of the inch-deep punctures they made in the bark of the tree before continuing on past the trunk to pick up the latest one where it has fallen amid the leaves. Haruto trails him, the weight of the bow hanging at his side and his shoulders aching with the effort of drawing it, pausing at the tree to reach out and touch his fingers against the curve of the bullseye etched into the surface. There’s an array of marks within the rough circle, indentations left by previous arrows and better archers than Haruto is; some of them are even his own, from the last time he came out with the smaller bow he’s used in his life up until now.

“Doesn’t it seem a little silly to you?” he calls after Takami without looking away from a deep divot in the wood under his thumb. “Me switching to a bigger bow isn’t going to do any good at all if I can’t hit anything with it.”

“You’ll get there.” Takami has collected the fallen arrow; he’s turning back to Haruto now, flashing the careful smile he always offers as he picks his way through the fallen leaves and back to the other’s side. “It’s a matter of practice. You still know how to shoot, your muscles just need to catch up to what your mind knows how to do.” He offers the trio of arrows to Haruto; Haruto reaches out to close his fingers around the bundle an inch below Takami’s sleeve, and Takami lets his hold go so his hand can fall back to his side. “You’ll have the advantage of power once you master the larger bow.”

“Assuming I do master it,” Haruto reminds Takami. “I could just keep using the smaller one and still hit things, isn’t that good enough?”

He’s teasing, mostly; the words fall easy off his tongue, curve into the beginnings of a smile at his lips even as he offers them. But Takami looks up to meet his eyes with a steady gaze of his own, and there’s no suggestion of a smile at his lips as he speaks.

“You waste your potential with a smaller bow,” he says, the words coming quick and sharper than any tone he’s ever before taken with Haruto. “I work with dozens of recruits who will never be able to match your height and the possibility that comes with it. You ought not to squander the gifts available to you in favor of taking an easier route.”

In all the years he’s known the other man, Haruto’s never seen Takami so intent on a subject before. His eyes are dark, his mouth is set; he looks like he’s ready to push Haruto back against the tree behind him to make his point clear. “Right,” Haruto says, carefully. “I didn’t mean to. I mean. I was joking.”

Takami blinks, his lashes dipping dark over his eyes; and that strange intensity flickers and vanishes, evaporating into dawning realization that blows his eyes wide and drops his mouth open. “ _Ah_ ,” he says, and then he’s ducking into a bow, far lower than the precisely formal ones he usually offers. “My apologies, your highness, I did not intend to so overstep my bounds.”

Haruto shifts his feet. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says, feeling his shoulders tense with the discomfort of having the closest person to a friend he has bowing to him. “It was just a joke, it was my fault, really.” He clears his throat and shifts his grip on the arrows in his hand so he can scratch at the back of his neck. “You can call me by name, you know that.”

“I do,” Takami says without easing from his bow. “It’s a matter of propriety, your highness, the--”

“I know,” Haruto says quickly, talking fast to cut off Takami’s too-familiar speech about reasonable formality between the prince and his servant, captain of the royal guard or no. Even left unstated it draws strain along Haruto’s shoulders, hunches his posture forward as if in self-defense against the weight of the other’s words. “It’s fine. Please stand up.” He reaches out to push at Takami’s shoulder with the hand closed around the bundle of arrows. “C’mon, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

Takami tips his head to glance up at Haruto. His eyes are dark, his gaze fixed; it’s only after a moment that his mouth tightens at one corner to tug up on the faintest suggestion of a smile. “As you wish,” he says, his tone deliberately flat with formality, and he straightens with the same careful intention in spite of the bright starting to sparkle behind his eyes and the tension he’s fighting back from his lips. “I live to serve, your highness.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Haruto says, trying to be offhand while he can feel his whole face burning with self-consciousness. “Just help me figure out how to not suck at this.” Takami actually laughs at that, his mask of formality giving way completely for a moment, and Haruto glances sideways at the other, his mouth pulling on a grin. “I’d hate to upset you again, since you’re so invested in my improvement.”

“I am,” Takami agrees. “You could be a better archer than most have the chance to become.”

“If you say so,” Haruto tells him. He reaches to stick two of the arrows point-down into the ground next to him alongside the handful of others left there before drawing the third in against the tight-drawn bowstring and lifting his grip on the bow itself. It’s difficult to pull back, the more so for the warm-up exercises Takami walked Haruto through before they began; Haruto’s arms are shaking with the effort, he can feel the strain running all across his shoulder to ache in the small of his back, but he takes a breath anyway, deliberately drawing it long and focused in the way Takami has talked him through a dozen times already today.

“Good,” Takami says, his voice back to the level calm he usually brings to training Haruto. “Another breath. Slower. Focus on the feel of the bow under your fingers.” His tone is even, smoothing away the rough edges of tension against Haruto’s shoulders and the distraction from his mind; he can breathe in accordance with Takami’s guide, can let his muscles ease from their straining effort into deliberate control. He can still feel the tension across his shoulders, his arms are still aching with the strength required to pull the bowstring back; but it feels distant, something he can acknowledge and leave in the back of his mind as he thinks about settling his fingers tighter against the bow, as he draws the arrow up to sight along the compressed perspective of the shaft. He can see the bullseye marked out on the tree, can follow the line of the arrow all the way down to imagining it lodging solidly right in the center of the mark; he takes another breath, lets it out slow, and he’s just tensing his wrist to draw back the last inch when:

“Captain!” comes a shout from over Haruto’s shoulder, the voice faint with distance but shrill enough that the tenor of panic carries clear through the air. Haruto turns at once, his focus scattered instantly by the call, lowering the tension on the bowstring just as a second call of “Your highness!” follows the first. The voice is coming from a young man in the blue and white of the royal guard, hunched in close over the neck of the horse he’s riding towards them; his hair is tangled by the speed of his travel, his words come as breathlessly as if he’s the one who’s been running rather than the horse under him. “Captain Takami, thank goodness you’re here!”

“Why--” Haruto starts, and Takami speaks fast, his words falling atop Haruto’s as if the other isn’t speaking.

“What’s wrong?” His smile is entirely gone, his whole expression set into focus as he gazes at the guardsman reining his horse to a halt and toppling off its back as part of the same motion.

“There’s been an attack,” the man -- boy, really, he can’t be more than fifteen -- gasps around the rush of his breathing. “On the border. A dozen attackers on an outpost, maybe more.”

“Bandits?” Takami asks, his voice snapping harsh and stern to match his expression.

The boy shakes his head in instant negation to precede the gasp of his breathing catching up to his words. “No,” and there’s a weight on the word, a heaviness under it that chills Haruto’s skin with premonition well before the other finishes speaking. “The survivors report that they were wearing Otorian military uniforms.”

Takami’s eyes widen, just barely, his jaw sets almost imperceptibly. “I see,” he says, and his voice is hard, now, heavy as if weighted with lead. “It’s war, then.” The boy nods, offering agreement that Takami doesn’t wait to see; he’s looking to Haruto instead, fixing the other with the full focus of those dark eyes. “Your highness, you must return immediately.”

Haruto blinks. “What?” The boy is turning to look at him, his eyes wide and panicked to offset the set certainty of Takami’s gaze; Haruto feels like he’s been caught in a sudden beam of light illuminating him before he was ready for it. “I...what?”

“Take the horse,” the boy says, extending the reins towards Haruto with a sketched-out bow that hunches uncomfortable self-consciousness over Haruto’s shoulders. “Please, your majesty, you are needed for the preparations.”

“I’m not,” Haruto says, looking away from the boy’s formal bow to blink alarm at Takami instead. “I’m not needed, that’s...they need _you_ , you’re the guard captain.”

“And you’re the crown prince.” Takami reaches to tug the reins from the boy’s grip and extends his arm to offer them to Haruto; his sleeve catches at Haruto’s wrist, the dangling ends of the leather reins brush the other’s knuckles. “You must return immediately.”

“I will,” Haruto says, feeling his shoulders hunch on stress, on confusion, on the completely overwhelming weight of the moment and the two pairs of eyes gazing at him as if he really is invaluable, as if the strategic conversations truly do require his presence. Certainly he’ll be sitting in on them, a silent observer there to learn rather than to contribute, but if it’s war there’s a need for decision, for experience, for-- “You go.” He reaches to catch Takami’s outstretched fist against his palm and push it back towards the other. “They need you more than me. We’ll come straight back, we’ll be there in no time.”

Takami’s jaw flexes, his mouth sets into a firm line. “Your highness--”

“Go,” Haruto says, and then, with the words resonating strangely in his throat: “I order you to return at once, Captain Takami.”

Takami blinks, his whole expression shifting like his composure is thinking of giving way, like there’s a flicker of something dark and immediate just under the surface of that set jaw and those wide eyes; and then he ducks his head, and folds into a bow, and says, “As you command, so I obey” while his head is still ducked down so Haruto can’t see his expression. He’s as good as his word; he’s turning away as quickly as he straightens, stepping in towards the horse and bracing a hand on the saddle to swing himself up and into place in a single fluid motion. There’s a sweep of white through the air, Takami’s cloak catching to flutter in the wind of his motion as he pivots the horse around and back the way it came, and then he’s off, leaning in close and kicking the horse into a pace as quick as the one set by the messenger upon his arrival.

Haruto is left standing in the clearing of the forest, a bow still clutched in his hand and his arrow dropped forgotten to the ground before him. The messenger is staring at him, he can feel the boy’s eyes wide and shocked as he gapes at the crown prince, but Haruto doesn’t look away from where Takami disappeared into the shadows of the forest on his way back to the castle.

Haruto isn’t sure if he did the right thing, but at least he did _something_. At least this way one of them can be useful.


	3. Responsibility

Haruto doesn’t like the strategy discussions.

His liking doesn’t come into it, of course. He’s the prince, the heir apparent to his father’s crown, and that means he is a required part of the discussions, even if his role is to sit silently at a corner of the table and listen more than contribute anything of real value. He thinks he might have been called out for sending Takami back ahead of himself if the circumstances were different; the only reason he avoided such, he thinks, is because he was utterly forgotten in the turmoil that descended with the first news of the overt attack. No one noticed his absence until the first panic had settled, and by then he was back at the entrance to the castle and available to be pulled into the conversation that has become endless since.

It’s not that the strategizing isn’t necessary. There’s no wasted time; everyone at the table is focused and efficient in their feedback, with decisions being put forth and confirmed or outright rejected within the span of just a few minutes. Haruto can see focus on every other face, from the drawn lines of his father’s expression to Takami’s dark eyes far at the other end of the table. Haruto is used to seeing a smile working its way onto Takami’s lips, or to facing the gentle tolerance for his mistakes that has always been there since the newest guard recruit was put in charge of the crown prince’s combat training. But there’s no smile now, not so much as a flicker of gentle amusement over the familiar lines of Takami’s face; his attention is set, his gaze given over entirely to the papers in front of him and the maps laid out over the table, until Haruto almost can’t recognize the man he knows in the absolute focus of the other’s features. Takami only looks at Haruto once, only sparing a momentary glance up from the papers in front of him to meet the other’s lingering gaze. Their eyes meet from across the length of the table, Takami’s lashes shift in a flicker of recognition, and for a moment those stern lines in his face ease into the very beginnings of a smile, the expression soft and sincere even if it never comes close to the shadows behind the other’s eyes. It’s like Takami is pressing a hand to Haruto’s shoulder, like he’s tensing his fingers into the comforting weight of physical contact, and Haruto is left uncertain whether he’s more grateful for the obvious reassurance the other offers him or more upset with himself that his own evident stress forced Takami to make the effort.

That’s what he ends up thinking of, over the hours that pass to pull his focus apart into exhausted haze as the conversation varies across plans for provisioning all the way to the best approach for tactical maneuvers in the event of a surprise attack. Haruto struggles even to follow the discussion, much less contribute to it, and he finds his focus keeps tangling itself around the sleek smooth of Takami’s hair at the nape of his neck and the straight line of the other’s nose. He looks impressively pulled-together; Haruto doesn’t think he himself has ever looked so composed in any situation, least of all four hours into a charged discussion of strategy and emergency tactics. But Takami looks unruffled, as if he’s only just emerged from his chambers with his cloak as pure white as ever and his hair smoothed back to a perfect shine down to the heavy weight of the ponytail at the back of his neck; if Haruto hadn’t been in the forest with him he doesn’t think he’d believe that the other man had ever been anywhere but right here, much less hiking through the woods and aiding a struggling prince with his latest attempt at archery. Haruto can feel the awareness of that press against his chest like a weight, as if Takami’s presence is enough to highlight all his own insufficiencies in comparison. He can see his own struggles to fulfill the duties of his role spelled out in the apparently effortless grace with which Takami meets his own, can see all his own ineffectiveness writ large in the sense that Takami is invaluable wherever he goes. There’s no jealousy to the emotion, no press of uncomfortable dislike or irritation to ease the weight to something bright and vicious; there’s just the judgment as Haruto’s wandering thoughts turn in and around on his own failures. He doesn’t know how to succeed, doesn’t know how to offer what his father wants or what his kingdom needs; but Takami has succeeded in whatever was handed to him, has risen to whatever occasion demanded he be or do on the kingdom’s behalf or Haruto’s alike. Haruto can’t imagine how much effort that must take, can’t fathom how much self-control Takami must exert at all hours of the day to improve, to excel, to lead and support and help while holding together that iron composure that Haruto has only seen crack a handful of times and never with more of an audience than Haruto himself. The weight of that calm restraint feels impossible even to imagine, Haruto can hardly stand the idea of it in his own mind; when he looks at Takami at the other end of the table, voice still clear and opinions unswerving, he thinks he can feel his eyes prickling with the beginnings of tears from somewhere between shame and gratitude so sharp in his chest it feels like pain. His attention is lost, vanished between recollections of the past and appreciation in the present, and he’s forgotten all about where he is until there’s a voice loud enough to jar him back to himself.

“ _Haruto_.” Haruto jumps, startled back into his own awareness of the world, and blinks hard as he turns to respond. His father is looking at him from the head of the table, where he’s been frowning at the preparations in all but silence; now his frown is turned on Haruto, his brows drawn together to shadow over the exhaustion settling into his expression.

“Ah,” Haruto says, trying to remember if his name had been called more than once. “Yes, sir.”

“What is your opinion on this situation?” The king gestures to the array of symbols laid out across the map in front of him; the pieces are color-coded, white for their own men and gold for the enemy, but other than that basic information Haruto can hardly make sense of the scenario they’re considering. The generals and advisors sitting around the table are turning to look at him, their expressions grave with the weight of the conversation and their eyes hard with anticipated sacrifice; Haruto can feel the burden of those stares like a physical weight bearing down on him, can feel the pressure in the room rising as if the air is evaporating from around him to leave him gasping and suffocating in front of the whole crowd. Takami lifts his head from his consideration of the map, his gaze coming up to fix and hold Haruto’s, and Haruto sucks in a sudden lungful of air as the rest of the room eases back into unimportance, as the focus of Takami’s eyes on his braces him against the illusion that this is just another exercise, this is just another gentle test from the tutor who has become his friend over the last handful of years.

“Right,” Haruto says, and turns his attention back to the map in front of him. There are lines drawn in to indicate hills and high ground; he reaches out across the table to gesture to one of the dark lines, feeling the structure of his answer forming itself around that initial set point. “The enemy holds the advantage of height if they approach from the east; it’s reasonable to assume they will move to secure that, which gives us the ability to anticipate their actions.” He reaches for a pair of the white placeholders, each one indicating a contingent of soldiers ready to be deployed, and sweeps it around the edge of the arrayed gold forces. “There should be dense forests in this part of the terrain, which would allow for a group of infantry to approach more closely than otherwise and engage before the main group arrives to complete the primary attack.” It all falls together in his head, the structure of the attack and the logical arrangement of troops; it feels like one of the myriad of exercises Takami had him run through years before, when the deployment of soldiers was an idea so distant there was no weight at all to Haruto’s mistakes. Haruto glances up to Takami to gauge the other’s reaction; he’s looking at the map in front of him, his eyes dark with attention but his mouth very slightly curved on satisfied approval.

“It’s a good strategy,” he says, his voice clear as he reaches out to touch at one of the pieces Haruto moved. “However, you missed the--”

“The river,” the king says, his voice harsh and snapping fast enough to cut over Takami’s even tone. Takami looks up, his expression falling blank with surprise at the king’s words, and Haruto flinches as he turns to meet his father’s gaze. The king isn’t reaching out to touch the map; he has his arms crossed over his chest, has the weight of his attention fixed on Haruto’s face. That crease at his forehead is still there, the frown at his lips remains; there’s something heavy in his expression, something pulling down whatever intensity was behind his eyes into flat exhaustion. “You failed to account for the river.” Haruto looks down, feeling his stomach drop with sudden awareness of his failure as he sees the strip of blue running down the middle of the map, the curving line of it offering an additional, greater advantage to their enemy than even the benefit of altitude.

His father sighs, the sound loud in the silence of the room, and when he speaks again it’s not to Haruto at all. “You’re a skilled captain, Takami, but you’ve been too lenient with my son’s failings.”

Haruto’s head comes back up, his attention jolting to his father’s face before veering sideways to Takami’s. Takami is staring at the king, his eyes wide and his mouth shut; Haruto can all but see the color draining from his face to leave him white as his cloak underneath the sun-tanned dark of his skin. “Your majesty,” he says, an acknowledgment rather than protest; Haruto can see the strain of the words working in the line of the other’s throat, can see the effort that goes into the motion of his swallow.

“It was hardly a difficulty when he was a child.” The king glances at Haruto, just for a moment; there’s disappointment in his eyes again, the weight such that even him turning away carries the force of rejection enough to ache sharp against Haruto’s chest. “But he is a man grown who must own his own responsibilities rather than be coddled through his failures. Your dedication is to be commended, Captain, but I fear you have done him and the kingdom a disservice by your indulgence.”

Takami’s lips are pressed tight together, the whole of his expression is as bloodless as if the king had slapped him. Haruto’s heart is pounding in his chest, flooding him with miserable guilt far worse than anything he’s experienced before. “Father, please, it’s not Takami’s fault.”

“You have enough responsibility of your own to bear,” the king says as he turns his attention to Haruto. “Do not take on that which belongs to others. I have failed you as much as anyone and now we all must bear the repercussions of that in a period when we can least address them.” He heaves a sigh and lifts a hand to press his fingers to the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes as he pinches pressure against the line of it. “We cannot solve this now. Gain what you can from observation; this shall have to be addressed more thoroughly at some later point.” And he turns back to the map, dismissing Haruto from the conversation as clearly as if he had bothered giving voice to the words. Haruto is left to close his mouth on what flimsy protest he might offer and stare unseeing at the map in front of him while his cheeks flame with shame and unvoiced guilt alike. It’s minutes before he can find the composure to risk a glance at Takami, and by then Takami isn’t looking at him; he has his head ducked, his gaze fixed on the map before him, and if his face is still pale with strain his mouth has eased fractionally, the set of his jaw has loosened from its first painful intensity. Haruto keeps looking at him for a moment, likely longer than he ought; but Takami doesn’t look up to meet his gaze, and after a few seconds Haruto turns his attention back to the conversation and does his best to lose his self-consciousness in the complexities of the discussion of strategy and troop deployments.

He doesn’t look up to see the set of Takami’s jaw again.


	4. Accepting

“Up,” Takami says, speaking loud so his voice carries clearly over the rattle of metal-on-metal. “Keep your guard up, you’re letting it slip again.”

“Shit,” Haruto hisses, and jerks his arm up to raise his buckler to catch the downward swing of Takami’s practice sword. It’s almost too much -- he’s still moving when the blow lands and the metal skids off the hardened wood to slide down in a straight line towards his unprotected hip. A blow wouldn’t do any permanent damage -- the swords might be metal, but the edges are blunted well past any danger of cutting -- but the weight of the hit would be enough to knock the breath out of Haruto’s lungs and leave a nasty bruise to swell and ache for the next several days. He stumbles backwards in his haste to dodge the blow, instinct telling him to recoil before he’s sure of his footing, and when his heel catches at a rise in the hard-packed dirt under him he goes down as heavily as if he’d been shoved, his whole weight toppling backwards to drop him breathless to the ground at Takami’s feet.

Takami lowers his sword back to his side, his deliberate stance giving way as quickly as his expression melts into concern. “Your highness, are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, abandoning his position as easily as he gave over his professional distance as he starts to extend a hand to pull Haruto to his feet. “Are you injured?”

Haruto swings his hand wide, smacking against the inside of Takami’s wrist to knock the offer of the other’s hand away. “I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps, hearing his voice crack over the strain of emotion in his throat and helpless to hold it back to composure. “It’s just a few bruises, I’ll live.”

Takami’s forehead creases, his mouth pulls down to a frown as his eyes go dark with worry. “Maybe we should take a break,” he suggests, shifting the practice sword at his side as if to set it down. “This is twice as much training as you’re used to doing, you must be feeling the strain of it. You should take a minute to cool off, I could--”

“ _No_ ,” Haruto grates out. His fingers tighten against the handle of his practice sword; he can feel the leather wrapping around the hilt damp with sweat against his palm, can feel all the muscles in his arm shaking with the effort of supporting the weight of it even a few inches off the ground. “There’s no time, I have to be _better_.”

“You’re improving rapidly as it is, there’s no need to--”

“ _There is need!_ ” Haruto shouts, and he throws his practice sword towards the other as if to stave off his approach. The sword is heavier than he was expecting, or his arm is far weaker; it hits the ground well shy of Takami’s legs, skidding into a puff of dust to cloud the air between them and darken the white of Takami’s uniform, but Haruto keeps talking anyway, even if the gesture of the movement is lost to his own exhaustion. “We have soldiers who will be fighting for this kingdom, for _my_ kingdom, for this that I’m supposed to rule.” He grabs at the buckler strapped to his arm, wrenching the ties open so he can drag it free and cast that at Takami too. This one hits, the weight of the wood clattering against the other’s knee before falling to the ground; the impact is enough to make Takami stumble sideways by a step, his balance giving way to the force or the pain Haruto’s not sure which. “I’m worse than useless in the discussions, this is the only thing I _can_ do.”

“You’re not useless,” Takami says. Even then his voice is gentle, the words careful and clear over his tongue. “You’re learning and you’re improving, you’re doing the best anyone could expect.”

“‘The best,’” Haruto repeats back, the strain in his chest turning Takami’s words sour and mocking on his lips. “The best at mediocrity, maybe.” He ducks his head over his knees and lifts a hand to shove ungently through the sweat-damp tangle of his hair. His fingers are shaking, he can feel them trembling against his scalp; he curls his hand to a fist against his hair, squeezes until the shaking exhaustion running along his arm stills in appearance if not in fact. “I have to be better than this.”

There’s a pause, a breath of silence while Haruto stares at the ground in front of him with his thoughts humming a numb chorus of _not fast enough, not strong enough, not good enough_ that has stopped even hurting for how often he hears it. He imagines he can feel the burden of dozens of stares, of judgment rendered over and over on itself until it becomes a single chorus of _not enough_ in his own voice echoing inside the space of his head. He can’t give the answers his father wants, he can’t do the things Takami is trying to teach him; everything he does is too slow, too uncoordinated, his whole existence always one step behind the goal to make a constant, unrelenting disappointment of his whole existence. Takami shifts in front of him, his footsteps scuffing over the dirt underneath them as he moves past Haruto and away, but Haruto doesn’t turn to watch him; he doesn’t want to see the way Takami is looking at him, doesn’t want to turn his head and see the other’s back turned to him along with everyone else’s. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he looked up to see that disappointment in Takami’s eyes too, if Takami finally lost patience with his tantrums and his ineffectiveness, if Takami--

“Your highness.” The voice is as level as always, calm and collected and unwavering. Haruto tips his head to the side in answer, his fingers still twisted tight in his hair, and sees Takami just as the other is dropping to a knee alongside him. He steadies his weight, bracing himself against the ground with one hand as he lowers himself, but he’s holding out a cup in his free hand even as his head is tipped down to watch what he’s doing. Haruto stares at the cup, at the glazed ceramic plain and simple against Takami’s hold, and then he lets his grip on his hair go and reaches out to close his hand around the top lip of the cup instead.

“You should drink some water,” Takami says as he relinquishes the cup to Haruto’s hold. He’s still looking down, his head bowed as he smooths a hand against the white of his uniform; it’s dusty, Haruto can see now that Takami is nearer, the pale fabric showing the marks of their training as clearly as Haruto’s own dishevelment. Takami’s hair is still pulled back into that single smooth line, the tie at his hair keeping the weight of it clear of his face, but he’s flushed from the exertion too, there’s a sheen of sweat glowing at the side of his neck and the top edge of his hairline. Haruto stares at him for a moment, vaguely surprised by this proof of the other’s humanity; and then Takami lifts his head to look at him, and Haruto looks away to the cup of water in his hand.

“Thank you,” he says, belated gratitude easier to offer than anything more coherent, and he lifts the cup to his lips to swallow a long mouthful of it. The water tastes good, better than he expected it to; it washes away the dust clinging to his lips and against his tongue, brings moisture back to his parched throat and tired body. Haruto downs half the cup at one go, swallowing long before he emerges to gasp a breath of air that seems to offer as much refreshment as the cool of the liquid.

“Thanks,” he says again, feeling more like he means it this time as he offers the cup back to Takami. “You too?”

“Yes,” Takami says, accepting the cup with a careful weight of his fingers set just out of contact with Haruto’s. “Thank you.” He swallows carefully, a sip more than the gulp Haruto took, but when he tries to offer it back Haruto waves him off until he’s had another, longer mouthful of the water. Haruto watches Takami’s throat work over the action, looks at the precise set of the other’s fingers against the cup, and then he looks away, out to the dirt of the practice area and the weight of his sword and buckler lying where he threw them.

“Sorry,” he says, looking out instead of sideways to see Takami’s expression. “I really appreciate the time you take to train me.” He ducks his head to frown down at the dirt as he kicks a heel against the resistance of the earth. “I’m just stressed.”

“I know,” Takami says, his voice as calm as ever. When Haruto glances at him he’s set the cup aside entirely and is pressing both hands to his hair as if to ensure it’s as smooth as it can be. He’s looking straight ahead instead of at Haruto, his expression as neutral as his voice; the sunlight behind him catches the outline of his face into clear relief, makes art of the straight line of his nose and the curve of his lips. Haruto blinks, feeling a little like his sense of gravity is tilting out and away from under him; and then Takami turns his head to look back at him, and Takami’s mouth curves up on a smile, and he’s just himself again, the same trainer and friend he has been to Haruto for years. “You really are improving.”

Haruto can’t see any proof of Takami’s words in himself; it’s too easy to offer counterexamples of his failings, of his misplaced footsteps and forgotten guard and unsteady sword swings. But Takami’s eyes are soft with sincerity, and the curve of his mouth is warm with comfort, and Haruto finds himself smiling back without meaning to, the strain in his shoulders giving way to the reassurance of Takami’s words before he realizes it.

No matter what Haruto does, there’s never any trace of disappointment behind Takami’s eyes.


	5. Respite

The party seems unnecessary. It’s a distraction they don’t need, Haruto thinks, it cuts into time that could be better spent working through the endless strategy discussions and planning that goes into laying the groundwork for a first attack and preparing for the myriad of possible situations that will come with the enemy’s first foray. But morale is important, that much he understands even if he doesn’t feel it in himself, and it’s vital for the kingdom as a whole that the royal family be seen to be calm, and happy, and apparently untouched by the danger threatening their kingdom’s borders. Haruto doesn’t protest the suggestion of a royal gala any more than he complains at the excess of gold embroidery that ends up worked into the pristine white of the coat custom-made for him for the event. The weight of the fabric is uncomfortable -- it sits heavy across his shoulders, and the white of it is so bright he fears so much as brushing a wall for the dust that might show against it -- but he admits he looks princely enough in it to satisfy anyone who only has this judgment to go on. His hair is styled for him, brushed and swept back into golden waves fit to match the embroidery on his coat, and if he feels like a doll being dressed up to be presented to his subjects, it’s hardly a new experience. It’s easy enough to hold still and let the trappings of royalty be draped around him, until by the time he’s set free to descend the stairway and make his appearance he feels as far from his usual self as it is possible to be, as if he’s already had a cup of over-rich wine and come slightly detached from his sense of reality as a result.

The gala is not the place to recenter himself. Haruto always feels a little lost at these formal events; not because he doubts his ability to perform correctly, for once, but rather as if he’s become just the appearance of himself and not the fact, as if his face and existence are no more important than the gilt thread wound into the white of his coat. He smiles and waves, ducks his head in acknowledgment of those nobility that approach to sweep bows and curtseys alike, and when the music begins he accepts the hand of the first nobly-born girl presented to him to lead her into the steps of a dance he knows well enough to perform in his sleep. She’s pleasant company, even if any charm she might have is wholly undermined by Haruto’s awareness that she is putting on as much of a mask for him as he is for the event, and they separate at the close of the dance with compliments, and smiles, and no more personal connection than what brief warmth can pass through the silk of their gloves. From there it’s on to the next eligible young woman, and then a third, until the shift in hair color and dress design blurs into an endless cycle and Haruto couldn’t say if he’s dancing with the same girl he began with or not. It doesn’t make a difference; he’ll smile just the same, offer small talk about the entertainment provided by the events around them or the flavor of the wine or the color of the girl’s dress, and she’ll smile back, and flutter her eyelashes, and agree to anything he says regardless of her own opinion. It’s the way of these sorts of events, Haruto knows, and he withstands it for some hours without a flicker in the apparent sincerity of his smile.

It was easier when he was younger. Then his eventual exhaustion could be openly acknowledged, and he could be carried away to bed in the arms of a maid or led away by one of the royal guards, when he was slightly older. But now he’s expected to hold his own through the late hours of the night and into the small ones of the morning, and this, at least, Haruto is determined to succeed at. It’s a small victory, but he could do with a sense of success at something in his life right now. He’ll smile until dawn, if necessary; but he’s still grateful for the interlude called by the musicians so they can trade with the second shift and make their own way to bed, and while the rest of the crowd appears enthralled enough by the antics of a pair of actors who step onto stage to fill the silence Haruto is more than grateful to retreat to the garden doors under pretense of needing some fresh air to counter the effects of too much wine. He’s had almost none -- two glasses over the course of five hours is barely enough to keep his throat from the rough edge of effort that comes with too much speech -- but the exhaustion in his limbs is enough to stumble his footsteps in the most convincing way, if he lets his control over himself go for the purposes of gentle deception.

It’s cold outside. The night air is like ice this late at night; overhead the stars sparkle in tiny glittering points of light against the black of the sky. There are only a handful of people out in the cold; a pair of lovers Haruto can see, cuddled into each other for warmth and mostly hidden by the branches of the trees hanging over the bench they’ve claimed, and a few intemperate drinkers in true need of the bracing air Haruto claimed as his own excuse. But the night is too cold for most, and certainly for any of the polite girls with their pretty smiles and thin dresses, and Haruto is left to lean back against one of the columns alongside the doors and shut his eyes while he takes a moment to revel in the brief interlude of quiet. He can hear the weight of the door swing open, can hear the gentle sound of it being eased closed over the roar of sound from inside; the care of the movement identifies the approaching company well enough that Haruto doesn’t have to turn his head or open his eyes to see the familiar white of the uniform that comes with it.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll go back inside in just a minute.”

“I didn’t come out here to drag you back in.” Takami sounds faintly amused, his voice tense over the very edge of laughter at the back of his throat, but it’s hard to hear the tell for it under the weight of audible exhaustion. It’s enough to make Haruto open his eyes and look back over his shoulder just as Takami turns to lean against the curve of the column next to him. His hair is as smooth as ever, his uniform as perfectly pristine as Haruto hopes he can keep his own; even when he tips his head against the column his expression is composed, as smooth and untouched as if the night has only just begun. “You’re entitled to a few minutes to catch your breath.”

“Yeah?” Haruto asks without looking away from the line Takami’s profile cuts against the golden glow from inside the ballroom. “Why _did_ you come out here?”

“It may be a festive gathering but your safety remains paramount, your highness.” Takami sounds like he’s reciting from a document, as if he’s reading back the words of some vow so deep in his bones that it takes no thought at all to shape it at his lips. “It’s the duty of the royal guard to see to it that the festivities remain unmarred by any accidents, especially in the current time of crisis.”

Haruto blinks. Every word out of Takami’s mouth is absolute accurate, he can all but see the logic of them framed to precision in the other’s head; but Takami’s not looking at him, he’s gazing out over the shadows of the garden instead, and there’s still the faintest suggestion of strain at the back of his throat, still tension pressing the outline of tendons in his neck against the collar of his cloak.

“You know,” Haruto says carefully, the words coming slow on the exhaustion weighting heavy in his bones. “It’s not the end of the world to admit you’re tired.” Takami blinks, his expression dropping to complete shock as he turns to stare at Haruto; Haruto flashes a grin at him, feeling it go lopsided as he does but still secure in its clarity. “It’d be nice to know you’re not actually the superhuman guardian deity you appear to be sometimes.”

Takami blinks again. His eyes are wide, his mouth partly open; Haruto doesn’t think he’s ever seen the other look so shocked before in all the years he’s known him. “I’m not--” he starts, and then shuts his mouth at once, as if to catch back the force of the words he clearly hasn’t yet formed in his own mind. “Your highness.”

“Please,” Haruto groans, and turns away to look back out at the garden again. “How long are you going to insist on calling me that? It’d be nice to have someone other than my parents who ever called me by my name.”

“Propriety makes demands of us all,” Takami says, sounding like he may have regained some of his usual composure. “Isn’t that why you’ve been dancing your way through the entire spectrum of eligible maidens in the kingdom tonight?”

“God,” Haruto groans. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder.” He tips his head up to gaze at the stars overhead. With the cold of the air, they look close enough to touch, if he just lifted a hand and stretched out for them. “Are they looking for me yet?”

There’s the sound of fabric moving, a scuff of half-a-footstep as Takami looks around the curve of the column. “Not yet,” he says. When he steps back he comes in closer, until his shoulder is bumping Haruto’s. “You can stay out here a little longer.”

Haruto looks sideways at Takami. The other is looking out at the garden, his expression as fixed as if he really is bracing for the unlikely possibility of an assassination attempt or a kidnapping; but he’s pressing close against Haruto’s arm to fit on the far side of the column alongside the other, and the giveaway of his white cloak is tucked in behind him to keep it invisible from any eyes inside. From here Haruto thinks anyone would just see the suggestion of dark hair, maybe the shadow of a figure on the far side of the column; there’s nothing to give away his own presence, and no way to identify Takami himself as a member of the royal guard. Anyone looking for the crown prince will have no reason to check outside, and no way of knowing Haruto himself is here until he decides to head back through the doors to the warm glow of the party.

Haruto looks back to the sky, feeling a smile urging at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Takami’s voice is level, as perfectly composed as Haruto knows his expression is without needing to see it. “Your highness.”

Takami’s voice might be cool, but his arm against Haruto’s sleeve is warm right through the layers of fabric between them.


	6. Adjustment

Haruto likes practicing his archery best. It’s certainly better than the strategy meetings he’s required to sit in and struggles to focus on, and it’s more immediately satisfying than the slow progress Takami insists he’s making in his hand-to-hand combat. Haruto certainly doesn’t feel like he’s improving when Takami knocks him off-balance for the fourth time in a half hour, and much though he wants to take the other at his word it’s hard to find an objective point of comparison. Far better to have the weight of his bow in his hands, and the draw of the string pulling against his fingers, and the clusters of arrows in his target tree gathering a little bit tighter with every day of practice.

“You’re doing well today,” Takami says from alongside him, as Haruto’s latest shot _thud_ s solidly into the center of today’s grouping. “A little higher and you’ll be precisely on-target.”

“I’ll try,” Haruto allows. He lowers the bow as Takami gets to his feet to go and collect the handful of arrows studding the tree trunk a handspan below the designated bulls-eye. “I keep thinking I’m aiming higher than I am.”

“It’s the bow,” Takami says without turning around as he works an arrow free of its deep-set position in the trunk. “You’re not quite used to the weight of it yet, it’s drawing your aim down without your realizing.”

“I’ll just need to aim higher than I want to hit,” Haruto smiles. It’s easier to smile like this, without the judgment of an audience for his actions or the weight of the air in a closed room bearing down on him; there’s just Takami, bracing a hand against the tree while he pulls against a particularly stubborn arrow to draw it free of the bark, his hair smooth and dark as the tree trunks around them. Haruto’s attention catches at the shine of it, clinging to the color as he goes on talking. “I’m bound to succeed with such a patient instructor.”

Takami huffs a laugh as he pulls the arrow free and turns back around to Haruto. “It’s easy to be patient when the student learns so well.” He steps back across the gap between them to offer the handful of arrows to Haruto again. “Take a break before you start the next set, it won’t do you any good if you overwork yourself and get hurt during practice.”

“As you command,” Haruto says, grinning to see the way the words make Takami’s gaze flicker up to him and tug the beginning of a smile at the corner of the other’s mouth. “You know best when it comes to training.”

Takami’s lashes flutter, his smile shifts; he ducks his head, turning away before Haruto can clearly piece out the expression on his face. “I suppose so,” he says, and he’s stepping away to return to his usual position a few feet to Haruto’s left, where he can see the shift of the other’s movement without placing himself in the line of fire. Haruto stares at him for a moment, frowning consideration at the span of the other’s shoulders until Takami turns back to look at him and Haruto ducks to watch his grip on his bow as he sets it aside.

“I’m glad for the company,” Haruto says, keeping his gaze fixed on the arrows in his hand as he presses them into the ground in a cluster too tight for a combat situation but effective enough for the purposes of the practice he’s doing now. “I thought you might get drafted into the war effort and I’d be left to practice with training dummies or the like.” He makes a face at the arrows in front of him and shakes his head roughly. “Sorry. That sounds selfish.”

“It doesn’t,” Takami says. He sounds very slightly amused; when Haruto glances back at him his mouth is curving on the start of a smile, and his eyes are soft with shadows. “External crises don’t require you to ignore all your personal concerns.”

“You really _are_ tolerant with me,” Haruto grins; and then, as amusement gives way to a flicker of curiosity, “Why _aren’t_ you out in the field?” It’s not until he’s given the words voice that he realizes the way they must sound and stumbles over himself to backtrack: “I mean, I’m glad you’re not, I don’t _want_ you gone. But father’s always looking for viable generals, and you must be an effective leader if you’re the guard captain.”

“I’m reasonably skilled, yes,” Takami allows, still holding to the suggestion of laughter in the back of his throat; but his smile is flickering, his expression falling back into that momentary shadow Haruto saw on his face before. He looks away from Haruto’s face, turning out towards the dappled sunlight of the forest around them instead; Haruto can see Takami’s throat work on a swallow, can see the tension in the other’s lips as he presses them close together.

“The king won’t send me out to lead anyone,” he says, finally, the words careful and formal in the back of his throat. “I suspect he’d sooner send you to take the front line than myself.”

Haruto blinks. “What? Why? You’re a great teacher, you would be great in combat.”

Takami glances at him, his mouth pulling on a smile for a moment; but then the smile fades, his gaze drops, his voice goes heavier. “It’s not enough to be a good leader.” He shifts one leg against the rock under him, adjusting his stance against the support. “Skill on the practice field is different than stamina in battle.” It could be the end of a statement; but he hasn’t lifted his head again, and there’s still the strain of tension all against the line of his neck, so Haruto doesn’t answer, just stands still and quiet as he gazes at Takami. The forest is very quiet, with only the sound of the wind and the occasional rustle of a far-off animal around them; and then Takami sighs an exhale, and speaks.

“I had a training accident, years ago.” He’s speaking towards the trees in front of them, his gaze unfocused like he’s not seeing anything at all; his voice is level, calm, like he’s telling a story of someone else decades in the past instead of his own more recent history. “I fell off a horse too big for me and broke my leg.” He reaches out to touch his left leg, just underneath the knee; Haruto’s gaze follows the movement, tracking Takami’s fingers even though of course there’s nothing to see but the smooth lines of the other’s familiar uniform. “The doctors did what they could, but the bone didn’t heal correctly.” He glances sideways at Haruto, just for a moment, before turning away again. “I had a limp for years after.”

“Oh,” Haruto says. He can remember it now, when he thinks of it; Takami’s hair was shorter, then, falling forward over his eyes when the other ducked his head into the deep bows he was still prone to offering at the time, before Haruto was able to talk him out of them. Haruto was happy enough to have someone nearly his age as more of a playmate in seeming than the bodyguard he was in fact; but he can remember Takami stumbling over a steep flight of stairs, once, can remember how easy it was to outrun the other if he tried, how he had taken to slowing his steps so as not to lose the semi-permanent shadow Takami made of himself. “You did.”

“It’s gotten better, over the years.” Takami is leaning forward over his knees, gazing out to the forest before him as if he’s speaking more for the benefit of the trees than Haruto himself. “I can walk without a limp, at least, and I’m quick enough for training purposes. But my leg can’t take more than a few hours, less if I’m straining it. I can hardly be a general with a time limit of a few hours before I’m as good as useless.”

“You’re not useless,” Haruto says, the words coming before he thinks them through. He can feel his face flush with the intensity of his emotion even before Takami looks over at him, but he sets his jaw, and closes his fingers in against his palm, and holds the other’s gaze. “You’re not. You’re great at strategy, you’d be incredible even if you’re not on the front lines.”

“That’s what I’m doing now,” Takami says mildly. “In those meetings you love so much.” Haruto groans at the reminder, twisting his expression into a grimace of distaste, and Takami’s level consideration gives way to a spill of laughter that breaks like daylight behind his eyes. “It’s fine. I don’t mind staying behind as long as I can be helpful to the effort in some way.”

“You are,” Haruto says, feeling as insistent on this point as if Takami is offering any resistance to the claim instead of calmly agreeing to Haruto’s statement. “You’re always helpful.” He looks away, ducking his head to gaze at the handful of arrows standing upright next to him as he reaches out to touch his fingertips to the feathery ends. “You’re keeping the prince occupied and out from underfoot, at least. You’ve always been good at that.”

Takami huffs a soft laugh. “Yes.” When Haruto glances back at the other Takami is gazing at him, the distance in his expression replaced with a softness behind his eyes that looks a little like nostalgia and a little like happiness, enough to match the curve of his mouth on one of the unguarded smiles that Haruto thinks he might value more than anything else in his life. “I am always happy to be of service to you, your highness.”

Haruto doesn’t have to reach for the smile at his lips any more than he has to strain for the huff of laughter over his tongue. “Sure,” he says, and pulls one of the arrows from the ground to lift it to his bow. “Just call me Haruto and I’ll be perfectly satisfied.”

This time, his shot flies true.


	7. Acceptance

“Faster,” Takami says, his voice soothing even with the snap of command laid over it. “Keep your guard up. Keep moving your feet, that’s it.” He steps in, nodding in silent approval as Haruto backs away; his practice sword swings in only to clatter uselessly off the resistance of the other’s shield. “Good. Again, faster still.”

Haruto ducks his head in a nod; it’s the best he can offer under the circumstances. His heart is pounding, his vision going blurry with every gasp of air in his lungs, but he’s moving in obedience to Takami’s orders more than his own decision. The burn of effort in his muscles long ago passed the point of pain; at this point the agony is so sharp as to be overwhelming. He can’t remember what it was like to exist anything other than moment-to-moment. There’s sweat running down his forehead to plaster his hair over his eyes; he thinks, distantly, that he’ll need to cut it shorter to keep it out of his face, or maybe grow it out far longer so he can tie it back like Takami does.

“Good,” Takami says, swinging his buckler up to toss aside Haruto’s swing towards his shoulder. “Switching from high to low. Block your knees for the next round.” He takes a step in closer, swinging his practice sword around in a smooth arc; it’s slower than his last attack, more deliberate, as if he’s moving in slow-motion. Haruto still barely gets his shield in place in time to avoid the attack, and the impact is enough to knock his footing off-balance and send him stumbling to the side. He tries to get his feet under him, scrambling to regain his balance as part of the three-step combination Takami is drilling him on; but his feet are slow to respond, exhausted muscles refuse to obey with the speed he needs them to, and when his arm starts in on the automatic swing towards Takami his distraction costs him in his aim, bringing the attack in high instead of the lower blow it was intended to be. Takami stumbles a step, jerking his buckler up higher in a rush, and Haruto tries to catch the blow back at the same time, so the practice sword in his hand skids sideways against the edge of the other’s shield. It’s enough to save Takami from a bruising impact, at least, but the heartstopping panic of stalling his movement undoes what little balance Haruto has left and topples him sideways and off the support of his feet. Haruto has a moment of crystal-clear awareness, can see himself falling towards impact with the ground, and some illogical instinct tells him to protect the sword, to angle it up and away from impact. He lands on his wrist instead, the full weight of his body jolting hard against the joint, and he shouts in the first flash of agony as his fingers go loose to drop the practice sword against the hard-packed dirt under him. He rolls sideways, instinct twisting him off-balance to ease the pressure against his hand, and as he takes a full gasp of air he can feel tears start in his eyes, can feel exhaustion and pain together spiking too high in him for restraint.

“Your highness,” Takami gasps, falling in to land on his knees next to Haruto. His own sword falls to the ground, rattling unnoticed as he reaches for Haruto’s wrist, and Haruto chokes on an inhale and shuts his eyes to the wet of the tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. “Are you okay?” There are fingers at Haruto’s wrist, Takami’s touch bracing gently against the injured joint, and Haruto can feel pressure starting in his chest, like his emotion is a tidal wide rising impossibly high to crash over him regardless of the propriety of the circumstances.

“I’m useless,” he says, the words breaking at the back of his tongue, and he lifts his free hand up to press against his face in some half-formed attempt to cover the tremor at his mouth and the wet trailing across his cheeks from the press of damp lashes against each other. “I’m not good enough, I _can’t_ be good enough.”

“You are,” Takami says, his fingers bracing steady around the ache at Haruto’s wrist. “You’re more than good enough.”

Haruto shakes his head without lifting his hand from his face, feeling the dull weight of certainty under the motion to press against his chest. “I’m not,” he says, and there’s no anger to the words, none of the reckless frustration that so snapped his patience the last time he spoke of this to Takami. There’s just resignation, failure so deep in his bones that he can’t shake it free, that all his efforts to the contrary do nothing except prove how deep it runs, how impossible it is to ever hope to lose it. His hand against his face is shaking, exhaustion so strong in him he can feel it thrumming under his fingertips; he doesn’t think he could so much as push himself to upright at the moment. “I can try all day and I’ll never be able to be as good as I need to be.”

“You _are_ trying,” Takami says, and his hold on Haruto’s wrist gives way as he reaches for the other’s arm instead to urge it sideways and off Haruto’s face. The sun is bright against Haruto’s eyes, it burns his sight as much as tears blur his vision; he turns his head away from the glare, fixes his attention instead on the dark of Takami’s hair, on the steady attention of the other’s eyes instead of the overwhelming white of the sky overhead. “No one can ask any more of you than that you try.”

Haruto can feel his mouth shift, can feel the corners of it tug up into a smile without any hint of amusement behind it. “But it’s not enough,” he says, the words slow and certain at his lips. “It would be if I were different.” He turns his head back up to the sky, shuts his eyes against the flare of those tears behind his lashes. “If I were good enough to really be a prince.”

Haruto’s eyes are closed to the glare of the sun overhead. He doesn’t see the way Takami is looking at him, doesn’t see the expression the other is wearing as he gazes down at him. All the warning he gets is the slide of the fingers at his arm and wrist pulling away, the removal of Takami’s hold from his sleeve and skin only to be replaced by the weight of hands against his face, by the press of dusty palms close across the wet trails left by his tears. Haruto opens his eyes, blinking through surprise at the unexpected contact, and it’s just as his gaze comes into focus on dark hair startlingly close to his face that there’s weight at his mouth and the press of warm lips close against his.

Haruto doesn’t close his eyes. He doesn’t do anything at all. For the first moment of time all he can do is stare up at the blinding bright of the sky, feeling his heart pounding out of rhythm in his chest while his thoughts trip over themselves into confusion, into understanding, into shocked silence. Takami’s hands are against his face, Takami’s fingers are gentle and sure against his cheeks, and at his mouth: Takami’s lips, soft and warm and gentle even as they press close against his, as the weight of the other’s mouth settles so deep into Haruto’s chest that it takes up residence alongside the uncomprehending beat of his heart. Haruto blinks, feels his lashes shift heavy with the remnants of tears stopped entirely by shock; and then Takami pulls back and away, before Haruto has time to more than barely process what’s happening.

“You are good enough,” Takami says, and Haruto has never before heard him sound like that, has never before heard his voice tremble so clearly. He can’t see the details of Takami’s expression -- they’re washed out by the too-much illumination haloing his hair with light -- but he can feel the weight of those hands at his face, can feel the steady heat of Takami’s skin pressing close against his. “You’re the only prince I need.” And then his touch is sliding away, his hands drawing back from Haruto’s skin as he retreats, and Takami is pushing up onto his feet and striding away without waiting for a response, before Haruto can so much as make sense of what just happened between them. He stares up at the sky, blinking against the burn of too-much-illumination, and he waits for the rush of shock in his thoughts and the rush of heat in his veins to fade.

It takes longer than he expects.


	8. Found

Takami has never been so hard to find.

It takes Haruto a while to start looking. He comes back from the practice field with his clothes dirty and his mouth burning, and it takes him some time to wash, and change, and get his aching wrist wrapped to immobility so it can heal over the next few days. He goes through the actions simply, almost mechanically; there’s no thought behind them, no effort going into each step he takes. His thoughts are still lingering at the dust of the practice field, still working over the memory of Takami’s hands against his face and Takami’s mouth pressing against his, until by the time he’s washed and dressed and bandaged the only thing he can think to do is go looking for the other.

Usually it’s no challenge to find him. If anything Takami has a tendency to appear without Haruto even having to try, arriving at the opportune moment to offer comfort or amusement or support just when Haruto most needs it. But now Haruto wanders the entire castle without seeing the least trace of the other, and when he finally tracks down one of the new recruits for the royal guard he’s told that Takami led the rest of the group out for a training exercise. It’s getting late in the day -- the sun is setting to orange and red across the sky when Haruto goes outside to gaze at it -- but there’s no indication of Takami’s return, even by the time Haruto has finished dinner with his mother and father and worked his way back to his bedroom via the long route through the castle. He keeps expecting to see Takami around every corner, or maybe even waiting for him in the corridor outside his bedroom; surely Takami must want to see him too, he can’t possibly intend to leave what happened this afternoon wholly unacknowledged. But there’s no Takami in the corridors, and no Takami waiting by his room, and eventually Haruto subsides into restless sleep that he startles awake from with every passing footfall outside his door.

The morning is no better. Haruto makes for the stables as soon as breakfast is over, hoping to find Takami in the echoing quiet of the space or out in the practice fields; but while the rest of the guardsmen are present and working through the rhythms of their drills Takami is nowhere to be seen, and Haruto doesn’t want to interrupt their efforts for the sake of an ultimately selfish inquiry. He wanders the fields instead, looking for dark hair and a white uniform that he can find nowhere, until finally he gives up on his efforts and returns towards the castle.

He doesn’t have anything particular in mind. Resignation is heavy on his shoulders; even knowing that Takami can’t avoid him forever this feels like defeat, like rejection before Haruto has even been able to place words to some question he doesn’t know how to frame in his own head. He heads for the strategy room without thinking, habit forming the path of his steps in that direction even against his usual preference; he can hear voices as he approaches, the murmur of words too muffled by the door for him to pick out individual words or even identify the speakers. It’s only as he draws closer that he can hear the clear weight of his father’s tone, the rhythm of the words an obvious dismissal, and it’s just as Haruto is reaching for the handle that the door comes open, and he blinks himself into focus on Takami right in front of him.

They’re both very still for a moment. Takami is staring at Haruto like he’s never seen him before, as if he’s struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing; Haruto is staring right back, surprise too bright in his veins to let him do anything but gape for a moment. Takami looks composed, his uniform tidy and his hair smoothed back, but his eyes are wide on shock, his mouth soft and lips parted on breathless surprise, and Haruto can’t figure out if the other is happy to see him or not and doesn’t want to wait to figure out which one.

“Takami,” he says, and he’s reaching out, his fingers are touching the front of the other’s uniform without any thought in his head except the contact. Takami catches a breath, his inhale sticking in his throat as he leans back almost as if Haruto’s touch has pained him, and Haruto can feel his throat tense on a rush of emotion. “Wait, no, I want to talk to you, I’ve been looking for you.”

Takami stares at him for a moment. They’re locked in place like that, Takami’s eyes dark on Haruto’s face and Haruto’s fingers weighting at the front of Takami’s uniform; and then Takami’s lashes flutter, his head ducks down, and he manages “Of course” in some desperate approximation of his normal tone. He takes a step closer, enough to let the door swing shut behind him, and Haruto backs up to give him enough space to move. His heart is pounding, his thoughts whirling; he hadn’t thought through this part of it, hasn’t made it beyond the question of actually finding Takami and to what he’s going to do with him. They’re in the middle of a hallway, in clear sight of anyone who may come down the corridor; Haruto looks around, seeking some kind of privacy for the few minutes he needs to compose his thoughts. There’s an alcove a few feet away, the tapestry hanging in front of it providing the shadowy corner Haruto needs; he lets his hand drop from Takami’s chest to the other’s wrist, closing his fingers into a gentle hold and tugging as he takes a step sideways.

“Here,” he says, and Takami is following as fast as Haruto urges him, trailing in the other’s wake as Haruto moves them into the cover of the tapestry. “Just for a minute.” Takami doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give voice to agreement or rejection either one; but he’s following all the same, his footsteps coming hard at Haruto’s heels, and when Haruto turns back around to look at him Takami is watching him, his eyes wide and dark and so soft he looks almost sad, as if there’s too much behind the shadow of his lashes for his usual calm composure to hold together.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Haruto tells him. “Since yesterday, after...have you been avoiding me?”

Takami’s lashes flutter, dip into a blink that says _yes_ more clearly than words would. “Your highness,” he says, and he’s ducking his head, he’s hiding that hurt soft in his eyes in the shadows weighting the lines of his face, but Haruto can still see his mouth, can still see the tremor of emotion clinging there as if having once broken free Takami can’t figure out how to fit it into composure once more.

“Takami,” Haruto says, tightening his hold on the other’s wrist against some half-formed fear of Takami turning away and flinching back from the words he’s going to say, from the words he _has_ to say, that he owes it to the other to give voice to. But Takami doesn’t turn away, doesn’t even tug against the resistance of Haruto’s hand on him, and Haruto is left with his chest full of pressure and his mind full of thoughts and his throat empty of anything but the rhythm of his breathing. His heart is racing, there’s adrenaline running desperate through his veins insisting that he say something, _anything_ , that he tell Takami...but he can’t find words for the emotion in his chest, can’t figure out how to grant voice to the too-much he wants to offer. He hesitates for a moment, staring at the shadows across Takami’s face, at the tremor at the other’s mouth, at the dark line of his lashes casting his eyes out of sight; and then he lets his breath spill out of him in a rush, and lifts his hand to touch against Takami’s face. Takami’s head lifts, his gaze jumps up to meet Haruto’s, and Haruto leans in, and tips his head, and presses his mouth to Takami’s. He can see Takami’s lashes dip, can feel the shiver of Takami’s exhale spilling over his mouth, and then Haruto shuts his own eyes and lets his attention to his surroundings give way to Takami’s lips against his.

They linger longer there than they should, and by the time they separate the smooth of Takami’s hair is showing the marks of Haruto’s fingers against it as clearly as his mouth is showing the friction of Haruto’s lips. Haruto doesn’t care. The almost-sadness in Takami’s eyes is gone, chased away into the soft shock of disbelieving happiness, and that’s everything Haruto wanted to find.


	9. Title

“Slow,” Takami cautions from Haruto’s shoulder. “Line up the shot. Take your time, we’re in no hurry.”

“I know,” Haruto says, his voice seeming to come from a long way off as he draws back the string of his bow. “I’m fine.”

“You are,” Takami says. There’s a touch at Haruto’s shoulder, the briefest weight to urge his arm down fractionally; Haruto submits to it, lets the line of the arrow he’s sighting along dip by a half-inch so it lines up precisely with the bullseye in front of him. “Right there.” The touch pulls away, Takami takes a half-step back. Haruto can hear his footsteps rustling the leaves. “When you’re ready.”

Haruto holds his position for a moment. The arrow is in line, the bow steady in his hands; but his heart is pounding, his arms feel like they’re trembling with the tension of anticipation, and he’s sure if he lets the arrow go now his fingers will shift to knock it off-center. He takes a breath instead, lets the strain in his arms of drawing the bow settle into his awareness like a rock settling under the surface of a clear pond, and it’s as he’s letting his inhale go that his fingers ease on the string in his hold, almost without consciously thinking through the motion. The arrow at his fingertips snaps forward, following the path laid out for it by Haruto’s hold and the curve of the bow in his hand, and a moment later the _thud_ of the arrowhead sinking into the tree in front of him speaks to the success of his shot.

“Beautiful,” Takami says approvingly as he steps forward towards the target and the arrow embedded within it. It’s just shy of the central target, Haruto can see as he lowers the bow to consider his aim; Takami has to work the arrow back and forth a few times before he can tug it free of the wood. “That was a lovely shot.”

“I almost made the center,” Haruto says, watching Takami’s shoulder shift as he pulls the arrow free and pushes a fragment of wood free of the arrowhead.

“You did.” Takami looks back up to him, smiling as he returns over the distance between them; he offers the arrow end-first to Haruto as he approaches, holding out the line of it for the other’s grasp. Haruto takes it, drawing it back against the string of his bow rather than reaching for a new one; he’s smiling as wide as Takami, happiness urged warm in him by the bright of the other’s smile as Takami gazes at him. “You should be able to make it on your next shot.”

Haruto huffs a skeptical laugh and ducks his head to watch the fit of the arrow against his bowstring. “You have more faith in me than I do.”

“I do have faith in you,” Takami says, his voice steady without any trace of self-consciousness. When Haruto looks back up at him from under the fall of his hair Takami is watching him with that smile still soft at his mouth, his gaze as warm as Haruto knows his mouth to be. “I know you can do it.”

Haruto swallows deliberately. “Yeah?” He looks back to the tree, to the trunk several paces distant; from here the bullseye looks like a single point rather than the span of crosshatching he knows it to be. Hitting it seems like an impossibility, like an insane thing to even attempt; but Haruto felt how smooth the arrow flew last time, tracked the clean flight of its motion through the intervening distance to the tree, and with Takami’s eyes on him he feels like he might be able to be the person he can be instead of the person he is. “What will you give me if I make it?”

Haruto can hear Takami’s smile on the other’s answer without turning his head to see. “Anything you want, your highness.”

Haruto’s skin prickles, his spine shudders as if with heat lightning. He has to deliberately take a breath, has to actively clear his imagination before he tightens his hold on his bowstring in preparation to lift it into alignment. “That’s pretty open-ended.”

“I know,” Takami tells him, and the words sound like a promise in Haruto’s ears. “I’m prepared to follow through on my obligation.”

“Okay,” Haruto says, and he lifts the bow in one clean arc, bringing it up to sight along the length of the arrow. The bow settles against his fingers, the wood presses smooth into his palm; the feathers at the end of the arrow shift against his grip, promising a smooth path once he eases his hold. The string strains under his fingertips, the tension in it all but begging to be set free; Haruto lets the effort of holding it back settle into his shoulders, lets it sink in against the curve of his spine and steady in his chest as he takes a breath and lets it slowly out. The ache goes distant, the tremor of exertion in his body fades into unimportance; Haruto fixes his gaze on the bullseye in front of him and lets the whole of his attention center on the small dark of the mark. He takes another breath, lets it go in a steady exhale as he eases his shoulders down, responding to the memory of Takami’s fingers against him more than the reality; and he fixes his eyes on the target, and flexes his fingers on the string, and lets the tension snap free at once. The arrow flies forward along the path laid out for it, following the trail of Haruto’s gaze as if it’s bound to it by a string, and Haruto is breathing out a sigh of relief in the moment before the arrow sinks solidly into the center of the marked-out bullseye.

“Ah,” Takami breathes. When Haruto turns to him the other is looking at the arrow sunk into the trunk of the tree, his eyes soft with appreciation. “I knew you could.”

Haruto lets a breath out along with the tension in his arms, feels a smile break over his face as he lowers the bow to his side. “You always have more faith in me than I do.”

Takami looks away from the arrow sunk into the bullseye to Haruto instead, his smile spreading wider over his face. “Always,” he says, and then he’s stepping in, lifting both his hands to reach for Haruto’s face as Haruto raises his free hand to touch against the line of the other’s shoulder. Takami ducks his head to the weight of Haruto’s fingers at his hair, his smile going wider as Haruto’s hand weights at the back of his neck to match the press of his palms against the tension of the smile breaking over the other’s features.

“You made it,” Takami says, his voice soft to match how close they’re standing, how near Haruto is to hear the sound of the words on the other’s lips. “What would you ask of me in return, your highness?”

“Nothing very major,” Haruto tells him, spreading his fingers wide to trail over the smooth dark of Takami’s hair. Takami ducks his head to the force, his lashes dipping in unspoken surrender as his chin drops to make an offering of himself, and Haruto can’t resist the urge to lean in closer to bump his nose against Takami’s forehead and breathe in against the warmth of the other’s skin. “It’ll be no trouble at all for you.”

Takami glances up from under his lashes, the tug of his mouth saying he doubts the accuracy of Haruto’s words; but when he speaks it’s to say “I serve your will, your highness,” with the deliberate formality that always so shivers down Haruto’s spine.

“That,” he says, and lifts his head to press his mouth to Takami’s forehead, quickly, just for a moment of contact to follow the force of his words. “Don’t call me that.”

Takami goes still. “What?”

“‘Your highness,’” Haruto repeats back, and then, quickly: “Or ‘your majesty’” as he flinches at even the idea of it. “You sound so formal when you call me that, it’s like you’re trying to put me up on a pedestal.”

“Your--” Takami starts, and then stops abruptly, closing his mouth on the weight of the words before they can go free. His lashes flutter, his chin dips down; his hands at Haruto’s face tense for just a moment. “You _are_ above me,” he says, aiming the words down to Haruto’s chest instead of to his face. “I cannot call you by your given name and maintain even the illusion of propriety, you know that.”

“Just when we’re alone,” Haruto pleads, offering the words to the dark slant of Takami’s lashes in the desperate hope of gaining traction on the other’s perfect, distant composure. “When there’s no one to hear but the two of us.”

“Not your name,” Takami says, his voice breaking in the back of his throat like it’s straining towards freedom over his tongue. “I forget my place too far already.”

“I _want_ that,” Haruto tells him. “I want you to just see _me_ , just for a moment.”

Takami huffs a laugh, his head ducking down farther for a moment. “I always see you,” he says, and then, as he lifts his head to look up from under his lashes at Haruto, as the tentative curve of his smile comes clear on his face, “My prince.”

Haruto can feel his smile give way to surprise, can feel his mouth come open on the first rush of warmth that runs through him at Takami’s words. “Oh,” he says, and his words catch in his throat, he can hardly push them past the knot in his chest that weights against the rhythm of his heart. “Takami.”

“Call me Ichiro,” Takami says, his smile going wider as he presses his hands close against Haruto’s face, as he traces his thumbs over the line of the other’s cheekbones. “When we’re alone.”

Haruto takes a breath. “Ichiro,” he says, and Takami sighs an exhale warm with satisfaction against his mouth and leans in to press his lips to the shape of his name on Haruto’s. Haruto tightens his hold on Takami’s neck, and shuts his eyes to the friction, and lets his attention to his surroundings give way to the warmth of appreciation instead.

He doesn’t mind being a prince, so long as he can belong to Takami.


	10. Pride

“We should have enough cavalry to take on this contingent,” Haruto’s father says, leaning in over the map of the surrounding territory to gesture towards one of the markers indicating the enemy attackers. “Even with the advantage of high ground enough men will be able to overwhelm them and reclaim the heights, which will resolve our resupply problem.”

“Too many will leave our existing holds undefended,” one of the generals says, frowning hard at the map in front of them. “If we strip the fort to take the heights we may lose our own resource. The resupply lines will be of no use to a fallen fort.”

“We cannot take them with less,” another says, growling from the corner without bothering to lean in and consider the map as laid out. “We must clear their encampment and we’re hardly likely to have a better chance than this. We should attack without working ourselves into a frenzy over what _may_ happen until it does.”

“This is hardly a matter of irrational panic,” the first general says, lifting his head to glare across the table at the other. “Recklessness in the name of valor is no better than surrender if done without a plan.”

“Spoken like a true coward,” the second snaps without stirring from his chair.

Haruto can see the color rise in the first general’s face, can see the crimson of insult flush hot over his cheeks and set in the heavy line of his jaw. “If it’s my honor you wish to impugn--”

“ _Silence_.” The word is snapped with enough weight and force to cut off the argument in any case; delivered by Haruto’s father and coupled with the smack of his hand upon the tabletop, it’s enough to bring the entire room to startled quiet. The king lifts his head to frown hard at the arguing pair. “If you two cannot find it in yourselves to cease bickering you are welcome to take your squabble to the practice field and leave this conversation to those willing to act like men.” He looks back to the map without waiting for a response, his shoulders hunching in over the bracing weight of his hand until the strain of the position is visible all along the fall of his coat over his shoulders. Haruto can see the sign of a headache in the tension at his father’s forehead and set into the line of his jaw, but whatever pain the king is feeling goes unacknowledged, at least in words.

“I cannot strip the fort’s defenses,” he says, in that steady voice that says he’s more than made up his mind. “The most men I can pull will give us barely even odds against the encampment, and those may be more than overcome by the advantage of height they have over us.” He lifts a hand from the table to weight his fingers against the side of his head as he frowns at the map. “Where else can we pull the needed reinforcements?”

The table goes silent. Haruto can look around from face to face, from the scowling general in the corner to the fixed attention of the one leaning over the edge of the map; there are shadows on every face, unhappy frustration set against every jaw. It’s only down at the far side of the table that there’s anything but shadowy anger, and that’s on the familiar lines of Takami’s face. Takami no more looks resigned to this than he does during Haruto’s practice sessions; he’s gazing at the pieces laid out on the map in front of them, thoughtful consideration at the line of his mouth and understanding starting to come clear in his eyes. Haruto can all but see the idea forming in his mind, can almost frame the words the other is opening his mouth to offer within the space of his own awareness.

“Archers.”

It’s not Takami’s voice. Takami is lifting his head to look up from the map, his eyes going wide with surprise at the interruption; it’s not until the dark of his gaze lands on Haruto that the other realizes it was _his_ voice that framed the word, that he offer clarity to Takami’s slow-dawning epiphany in advance of the other putting sound to it.

“What?” That’s the king, raising his head to scowl attention at Haruto; he still has his fingers pressed to his temple, is still wearing the evidence of his pain in all the set lines of his face. “What are you talking about?”

Haruto blinks. He has the whole attention of the room now, heads are turning to gaze up at him; from the shocked expressions on most of them, he’s willing to bet the majority of the viewers had forgotten he was in the room at all. Takami’s looking at him too; their eyes meet for a moment, just long enough for Haruto’s skin to prickle into warmth as if from sunlight sparkling over his skin, and then Takami ducks his head again to hide the soft in his eyes and Haruto clears his throat and turns his attention back to the map in front of him.

“Archers,” he says again, with somewhat more force behind the word as he steadies himself into his opinion. He looks down from the various gazes fixed on him and reaches out to touch the pattern of markers laid out over the map. “We can send in archers to support the cavalry.”

“They have the high ground,” his father says, grating over the words like maybe Haruto doesn’t understand them. “What good will archers be?”

“They’ll be invaluable, if we can get them into place in secret,” Haruto says, and the room goes silent as a dozen pairs of eyes look back to the map. He braces a hand against the table and reaches out to sweep his pointing finger into a curve around the cluster of enemy markers. “Here. If they’re in place before the cavalry comes in, we can funnel the enemy right into a wall of arrows.”

“We can’t do it immediately,” the first general says, but his tone isn’t a rejection as much as it is thoughtful, like he’s turning the idea over in his head. “It would take a day or two of preparation.”

“And another to collect the archers themselves,” the second general puts in. “Can the fort hold out that long?”

“It should be able to,” Takami puts in from the end of the table. He has his head down over the notes in front of him and is running a finger over the lines as if he’s tracing the letters on the page. “We can manage a handful of provisioning runs to supplement what they have now, although they won’t be able to muster more than basic defenses until we get the main lines open again.”

“We don’t have enough men,” Haruto’s father says without looking away from the frowning attention he’s giving to Haruto in front of him. “If we’re to hold the fort defenses and provide archery backup and also send provisions and supplies to the fort.”

“We can do it with the trainees,” Takami suggests. Haruto’s father looks back to him just as the other raises his head, first to meet the king’s eyes and then to glance at Haruto. “The guard trainees can fill out the archery line and those that are left can handle leadership for the supply runs.”

Haruto’s father gazes at Takami for a long moment. “You’re sure it can be done?”

Takami doesn’t look away from Haruto. “Yes, your majesty. It can be done.”

The king turns back to Haruto. There’s something strange behind his eyes, an attention Haruto hasn’t ever seen turned on him. He looks like he’s not quite sure what to make of the other, or as if someone else has taken Haruto’s face and voice to speak utterly incomprehensible words with them. There’s a pause, the whole room waiting in breathless silence for what the king may decree, and then:

“I’m impressed,” he says, his voice so flat with sincerity it sounds almost sarcastic, as if he’s more upset than otherwise. “You’ve been studying.”

Haruto can feel himself go hot with self-consciousness, as uncomfortable with this unexpected praise as he usually is with the far more regular condemnation. “Yes,” he says, and ducks his head to hide the flush across his face behind the fall of his hair. “Takami has been training me in his free time.”

“Takami is a better instructor than I believed him to be,” the king says. “Good work.” Haruto glances up in time to see Takami’s cheeks color with a tinge of self-consciousness just before he ducks his head into a nod of acknowledgment, and then Haruto’s father is looking back to him with that same strange attention in his eyes. “Hold your head up, Haruto. Your improvement is worthy of recognition, not something to be ashamed of.” Haruto lifts his head as far as he can, struggling for obedience while his face darkens further at this clarification, but his father is already looking back down to the map, reaching out to shift the markers where they are arrayed across the surface. “So. We’ll split the forces at the fort to leave a skeleton team to fend off any attacks from our too-enthusiastic enemy...”

Haruto subsides to silence after that. He has nothing further of value to offer, not as the conversation deviates into specifics of provisioning and suggestions for trainees to send with one of the two groups thus established. But his father isn’t pressing against his temple anymore, his voice is coming clear without the tension of pain underneath it, and when Haruto manages to lift his gaze to look around the table again Takami is watching him from the other end, a smile tugging at the very corner of his mouth and his eyes endlessly soft behind the shadow of his lashes. Haruto’s mouth turns up on a smile of his own, his face goes warm with self-consciousness more pleased than embarrassed, and Takami holds his gaze for a long moment before he looks back down to offer another suggestion for one of the trainees to be sent with the provisioning team.

It’s hardly the first time Takami has been proud of him, but Haruto still feels the awareness of it glow warm through the whole of his body.


	11. Lead

“That was your best set yet,” Takami tells Haruto as they come in the front doors of the castle. “You’re becoming an excellent shot with the larger bow.”

“You were right to recommend it,” Haruto agrees, tipping his head to look sideways through his hair at Takami. Takami is watching him rather than where he’s going, his eyes fixed on Haruto’s face and his mouth curving on a smile; Haruto can feel the lingering heat of the other’s mouth against his from the last rushed kiss they had just at the fringe of the forest, in the shadows of a pair of trees set close together as if with the deliberate intention to grant them cover from an accidental audience. Takami’s mouth was warm, his fingers in Haruto’s hair as gentle as the press of his lips; they had stayed there longer than Haruto intended, fitting against each other with complete disregard for the minutes sliding by uncounted. Haruto was laughing by the time they pulled away, delight as bright in him as in the sparkle of Takami’s gaze, and he’s still smiling easy now, happiness too radiant in his mind to be restrained even by their return to the castle. “I think you know me better than I know myself by now.”

Takami laughs, the bright, sincere one that crinkles in the corners of his eyes and pulls his smile wide across his face. “I _have_ made something of a study of it, my prince.”

Haruto misses a step, the rhythm of his footfalls failing him with the sound of that title on Takami’s lips. Takami’s watching him sideways when Haruto looks up, his mouth tugging on a smile that speaks more to the deliberate weight of those words than a statement would do.

“Ichiro,” Haruto says, murmuring the syllables into soft weight between the two of them, and he’s reaching for Takami’s wrist, closing his fingers on the other’s sleeve to urge him closer in spite of the open hallway around them and the possibility of an audience at any moment. He doesn’t care right now, can’t find it in him to muster any concern for the potential of getting caught; he just wants to close the gap between his mouth and Takami’s, wants to press the warmth of friction against the other’s lips. Takami is ducking his head into surrender of his own, making an unspoken offer of the dip of his lashes and the angle of his chin, and Haruto is within heartbeats of touching Takami’s mouth when:

“Haruto!” comes a shout, the tone loud and clear to carry down the hallway, and Haruto jumps back from Takami with guilty haste as his heart skids out on panic in his chest. Takami is pulling away as quickly, his retreat dragging hard against Haruto’s grip on his sleeve before he can collect himself enough to stumble back in towards the other. Haruto’s whole face is burning, his cheeks flushing crimson as he blinks his attention into focus on his father approaching down the hallway; but the king isn’t scowling, isn’t pacing forward with the weight of disappointment or anger under his steps, and Haruto just has time to realize that they haven’t been caught before his father is close enough to reach out and clap a hand to his shoulder.

“I have news,” he says, his attention fixed entirely on Haruto and not at all on Takami just over his shoulder or the angle of Haruto’s lingering hold on Takami’s sleeve at his hip. “Are you come from archery practice?”

“Ah,” Haruto says, still struggling to find his way back to composure from his moment of absolute panic. “Yes, just now.”

“Good,” his father says. “I understand you’ve been improving rapidly. Your increase in skill couldn’t be better timed.” His fingers tighten on Haruto’s shoulder, his stance straightens; for a moment he’s a king again, with the full weight of his title over his shoulders rather than the more casual appearance of father he more usually adopts with the other. “Haruto. You will be taking command over the team of archers sent out to reclaim the provision point from Otorian control.”

Haruto blinks. For a moment he can’t make sense of the meaning of his father’s words, can’t parse them into rationality in the space of his head. “What?”

“You will be in command.” His father’s hand tightens, his father’s head lifts fractionally. “We’ll send an experienced commander with you for support, but this will be your opportunity to lead men in the field. The goal should be stealth, rather than open combat, and it will allow you to gain a sense of field dynamics that you won’t be able to achieve over a map during strategy discussions.” His gaze shifts from Haruto’s face to over his shoulder, where Takami is standing so still Haruto can’t so much as hear the rhythm of the other’s breathing. “I’ll send guardsman Takami with you to offer strategic support, assuming he isn’t needed elsewhere. Regardless, this will be your first opportunity at leadership in the field.” His attention comes back to Haruto’s face, his expression sets into fixed focus. “You have the skill to handle this. I believe you won’t disappoint me.”

“No sir,” Haruto says, even though his heart is beating so hard he would swear he can feel the thrum of it at the back of his tongue and his knees are threatening to drop him to the floor if he so much as shifts his weight. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

His father tightens his hand at Haruto’s shoulder for a moment, pressing his fingers in close against the other’s coat. “Congratulations,” he says, and his mouth curves briefly on a smile. “Your effort has been more than evident in your recent improvement. You’ve done good work these last few weeks.” He looks past Haruto again to nod recognition at Takami. “Due in no small part, I believe, to the support of guardsman Takami. The kingdom appreciates your aid in this.”

“Of course,” Takami says in a strange, strained voice. Behind him Haruto can hear the other shift to duck into a sketched-out bow. “I’m happy to offer what support I can.”

“Indeed.” Haruto’s father looks back to offer him another smile. “Congratulations,” he says again. “My son.” The weight of his hand presses close, offering a moment of unspoken affection; and then he turns away, and strides back down the hall, and leaves Haruto and Takami staring silently after him.

There’s a pause. Takami doesn’t say anything, doesn’t so much as move; all Haruto can hear is the thunder of his own heart in his chest, excitement and terror tangling together over the impossibility of what he’s just been told, over the inconceivable responsibility of bearing someone else’s life in his hands, of having the command of others to send forward or pull back at his speaking, at his decision. The idea is overwhelming, more than he can stand to fit inside the idea of himself in his head; at his side his fingers tighten, his grip digging in hard against the support of Takami’s hand. He can’t make his hold ease, can’t slow the rush of his breathing coming desperate-fast in his chest; and then there’s a touch at his shoulder, a hand gripping against the sleeve of his coat, and “My prince,” Takami says, his voice low and steady and so close Haruto can feel the heat of the other’s breathing against the collar of his shirt. “Come with me.”

“Ichiro,” Haruto says, careless of where they are or whether they have an audience; his vision is tunneling to black, his head is spinning to dizziness, but when he turns his head Takami is there against him, his forehead bumping Haruto’s as his fingers lace into the other’s and tense to steady him. Haruto can feel the comfort of the touch run up the whole of his arm, can feel the certainty of Takami’s grip like it’s tethering his dizzy body to the earth, and then Takami says “This way,” and pulls, and Haruto turns obediently to follow Takami’s urging down the hallway and out of the main entrance.

It’s a comfort to still have someone else’s lead to follow.


	12. Enough

It’s a quiet walk back to Haruto’s rooms. Takami leads them through the back corridors of the palace, where there are only a few servants chatting together in pairs or trios in shadowy corners to see them, and if they get sidelong looks Haruto doesn’t have the attention to spare for them. He’s caught in his own thoughts, tangled in the race of his heartbeat and adrenaline too bright and flush in his veins to wait until it can be useful on the field; there’s some combination of fear and thrill in him, the excitement of being deemed worthy close alongside his own sure certainty that he is not, that it’s too soon, that he’s not ready yet for the responsibility that has been bestowed upon him. He’s going to get his men killed, he’s going to get himself killed, he’s going to get _Takami_ \-- and Takami is drawing to a halt in front of Haruto’s bedroom doors, pausing without reaching out for the handle to push the weight of them open so they can go inside.

“You’ll be alright,” he says to the doors, without turning his head to meet Haruto’s gaze or easing his hold on the other’s hand. “I have faith in you.”

“I don’t,” Haruto whispers, his attention fixing on the smooth line of Takami’s hair like it’s compass north, like it will be enough to steady the frantic rhythm of his heart in his chest. “What if I make the wrong decision? What if I lead us into a trap, I could get us all kill--”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Takami says, his voice cracking over the command to shatter itself out of his usual composure, and he’s turning, reaching to press his hand close against Haruto’s mouth. “Don’t say that.” His eyes are dark, his gaze fixed, but his mouth is trembling, Haruto can see the shiver of emotion under it in spite of all Takami’s usual restraint. “I’ll be there with you. I’ll keep you safe.”

Haruto blinks. There’s a chill in his chest, a shiver that runs straight down his spine to twist to a knot low in his stomach as Takami drops his hand, as Takami’s gaze flickers down to hold to the front of Haruto’s coat instead of meeting his eyes. Haruto has to struggle for breath, has to fight for even the illusion of composure on his voice before he can speak, before he can frame words to the cold suspicion in his veins. “You don’t think I can do it.”

“ _What_?” Takami blurts, his chin coming back up to show such wide-eyed shock even Haruto can’t see any indication of facade in his expression. “ _Yes_ , of course I think you can. You’re better than you ever give yourself credit for, I know you can do it.”

Haruto swallows hard. “But you don’t want me to go” he says, and Takami’s expression collapses, his steady reassurance shuddering into flinching hurt for a moment more than long enough to confirm Haruto’s suspicion. “Why don’t you want me to go?”

Takami shuts his eyes. His lashes look very dark laid against his cheeks, his mouth looks very soft as he takes a breath. Haruto can hardly catch his breath for how beautiful Takami is, can feel his heart ache with how sad he appears.

“You’ll be going to fight a war,” Takami says, and then he opens his eyes, and they’re endless with shadows, achingly soft with affection too pained to be hidden as it usually is. “People _die_ in wars, my prince.”

Haruto’s chest knots. He has to swallow twice to find moisture for his mouth. “You said you’ll keep me safe.”

“Yes.” Takami sounds certain on that; the word comes fast, almost atop Haruto’s statement. “I’ll prioritize your safety above all else.”

There’s an implication there. Haruto doesn’t want to look at it, doesn’t want to face it too directly; but Takami’s hand is still in his, Takami’s fingers are still close against his, and he can’t make himself let the other go, so speech is all he can offer. He takes a breath, feels it trembling against that too-much knowledge in his chest before he opens his mouth to let words fall. “And your own?”

Takami’s lashes flutter, as sure as if Haruto’s words are an arrow sinking into a bullseye. “Above all else,” he repeats, his voice unwavering even as his mouth trembles over the syllables.

Haruto didn’t expect a different answer. He could see Takami’s reply in the set of the other’s shoulders, could read it written into the curve of his spine and the dark of his eyes and the shadows weighting so heavy on his lashes. He knew what answer he’d receive, could almost have spoken the words for Takami; but it’s one thing to know what Takami will say, and another entirely to hear it in his voice.

“Oh,” he says, and his throat is tensing, his breathing is catching at the back of his tongue on the threat of tears he can’t blink away. “Ichiro” and he’s leaning in at once, almost while the other’s name is still on his lips, to press his mouth against the soft curve of Takami’s. Takami shuts his eyes immediately, surrendering his vision as quickly as he offers the heat of his mouth for Haruto’s, and Haruto knows they’re in the public corridors, and he knows they might have an audience at any moment, but he can’t stand the the thought of unwinding his fingers from Takami’s, of releasing the other from the hold that feels like protection, at least for now.

“Come with me,” Haruto offers, spilling the words over Takami’s mouth as he pulls back by a half-inch, by just enough to let Takami catch his breath and to give him the moment to give voice to his invitation. “Inside.” Takami hesitates, his attention slipping sideways to the dark of Haruto’s bedroom door as his forehead creases on uncertainty, and Haruto can feel pressure inside his chest like it’s crushing the breath out of him, like desperation is stealing the air from his lungs to leave him trembling with anxious need. “Please.” Takami’s attention comes back to Haruto’s face, his eyes lingering long on the other’s eyes before dropping down to the part of his lips and the rush of too-fast breathing Haruto can feel aching inside his chest; and then he ducks his head, capitulation inherent in the action, and Haruto breathes out a rush of relief and reaches to fumble the handle of his door open.

Haruto doesn’t look back to see if anyone is watching, if anyone has seen the crown prince pull the captain of the royal guard bodily into his bedroom; he doesn’t think he can find it in him to care, not when everything in him is trembling tense with desperate want. He just pushes the door wide, and pulls Takami in through the entrance after him, and it’s only as the door swings shut that he lets his hold on the other’s hand ease to reach for the fastening of his cloak instead. Takami breathes out a rush of air at the touch of Haruto’s fingers, his lashes fluttering for a moment of response; but he’s lifting his head, too, offering the line of his throat for the other’s touch, and Haruto’s hands might be shaking but they’re steady enough to get the job done. Takami’s cloak gives way, the smooth white of it slipping free of his shoulders to pool at the floor, and Haruto moves down to the line of his coat without hesitating, without waiting for an explicit invitation. It’s enough that Takami isn’t stopping him, that for all Haruto can feel him trembling his hands are still and unresisting at his sides, that his coat is coming open under the push of Haruto’s fingers. The weight of it pulls the fabric open as Haruto goes, laying bare the thin of the undershirt beneath it, the white fabric clinging so near Haruto can see Takami’s breathing shifting under the cloth. Haruto wants to press his hands to that motion, wants to catch the give of Takami’s breath against his palms as if the brace of his fingers can keep it safe; but he’s feeling his own clothes as a burden of their own, the weight of them pinning close against sweat-damp skin as he didn’t notice before, and he has to abandon his attention to Takami’s clothes to work at least the top layer of his own off.

Takami doesn’t move until Haruto is halfway through undoing his own coat. He just stands still, breathing so hard Haruto can hear the rush of his inhales in the quiet of the room; it’s only as Haruto’s starting to shrug his coat off his shoulders that Takami gasps a breath of intention and manages “My prince,” in a strange low range like Haruto’s never heard from him before. “My prince, are you sure?”

Haruto lifts his head from where he’s working free the last few buttons of his coat. Takami is staring at him, his coat undone and half-off his shoulders and his hands still at his sides, his whole body so visibly tense with restraint Haruto can all but see him tremble with every inhale. He looks like a bowstring drawn taut, like an arrow thrumming against the archer’s fingers and just waiting to be released; his eyes look nearly black, his pupils dilated so wide Haruto can hardly see the shadowed color of the other’s eyes even when he knows to look for it.

Haruto nods, agreement coming easy without any need to think through his reply. “Yes,” he says, and then, coming hard atop the first, “Please” like a plea instead of an order, a request and not a command.

Takami’s lashes flutter, his mouth shifts. Haruto can see his throat work on a swallow, can see the effort in the other’s body as he takes in this reply. And then: “Okay,” the answer coming so quickly atop his movement Haruto doesn’t have time to process it before Takami is stepping forward, is reaching out to catch his hands at Haruto’s shoulders and press his mouth against the part of Haruto’s lips. Haruto’s lashes flutter, his vision dissolving out of importance against the friction of Takami’s mouth, and Takami isn’t holding still anymore. He’s stepping forward, his hands urging Haruto back by his shoulders and his feet coming in to fit between the other’s until Haruto has to stumble backwards or fall entirely. Haruto reaches to grab at Takami’s shoulders, clinging to the other as his only point of balance as he retreats, and Takami keeps coming, walking him back over the floor with steady insistence at the same time he kisses Haruto with dizzying intensity. His tongue is hot against Haruto’s, he’s licking against the roof of the other’s mouth and catching his teeth at the soft of Haruto’s lips and Haruto is falling, his knees are catching at the edge of his bed and he’s toppling backwards before he can make even an attempt to halt his movement. Takami falls in over him, his hand dropping to catch them at the soft of the mattress below Haruto’s shoulders, and for a moment he’s still as he is, leaning over Haruto with his face cast to shadow and his eyes blown nearly to black on the heat rushing his breathing in his chest. Haruto can feel a rush of desire through his whole body, a single distinct spill of heat through every vein at the same time; and then Takami is leaning in to kiss him again, to weight Haruto’s mouth with his for a moment of distracting friction before he’s pulling away again, pushing back as he lifts a knee to the edge of the bed to brace himself as he reaches for Haruto’s coat. There’s one button still fastened at the bottom edge of the hem; Takami slides it free as part of the same movement of pulling Haruto’s coat open and free of his undershirt before reaching to urge the fabric off the other’s shoulders. Haruto pushes up onto his elbows, just enough to let Takami work the fabric down his arms and off his wrists, and then he’s just in the thin of his undershirt and Takami is gazing at him with more softness than Haruto has ever seen in the other’s face.

Takami has always been handsome, Haruto has known that basic fact for years; it’s in the line of his jaw, in the smooth plane of his nose, in the calm self-assurance in the dark of his eyes. But now, like this, with his eyes melting over heat and his lips barely parted on his breathing like he can’t fathom what he’s seeing: he’s beautiful, now, in a way that Haruto can feel tense against the inside of his chest as if the awareness is clenching tight against his heart to steal his breathing from him.

“Ichiro,” he says, the word so soft at his lips he can barely hear himself, and then he’s sitting up fully, pushing to settle at the edge of the bed so he can reach out to get his hands under the fall of Takami’s coat. Takami’s lashes dip, his head turns like he’s expecting a kiss, and Haruto tips his chin up to give it to him, to shut his eyes and sink into the give of the other’s mouth as he works off the complexities of his clothes by feel more than sight. Takami’s hands are at his shoulders, Takami’s fingers are slipping up under the fall of his shirt; under Haruto’s palms he can feel the tremor of Takami’s breathing coming fast in his chest, can feel the flushed heat of Takami’s skin all but glowing against his hands. They separate for a moment, long enough for Takami to slide Haruto’s undershirt free of his head and for Haruto to struggle through peeling Takami’s shirt off as well; and then they’re back together, hands on bare skin instead of soft fabric as Takami’s palms weight Haruto’s shoulders and Haruto’s fingers map up the curve of Takami’s spine pressed close against his skin. Takami’s hair is like silk against his fingers, tangling at his wrist and clinging to his touch; Haruto finds his way up the weight of it, tracking along soft strands to the tie holding it back at the nape of the other’s neck. He hesitates with his fingers at the knot, unsure of his permission to continue; and Takami lifts his hand from Haruto’s shoulder, reaching back to catch Haruto’s fingers with his own and urge the tie free. The knot gives way, the tie slips from Haruto’s fingers to be lost to the give of the sheets under them, and Takami’s hair falls loose around Haruto’s hands, the dark smooth of it tangling over his shoulders and against Haruto’s touch. Haruto makes a sound against Takami’s mouth, a startled whimper of heat he has no chance to catch back, and Takami’s hands come up to his own hair, the other’s fingers winding to fists against the strands. Haruto can feel the pressure aching across his scalp, the sensation unfamiliar and the warmer for it, as if the drag of Takami’s fingers is purring heat direct down the length of his spine to collect warm and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

They stay like that for a while, Takami’s hands pressing close against Haruto’s scalp and Haruto’s fingers wandering through the dark curtain of Takami’s hair. It’s Takami shifting his weight that reminds Haruto where they are, that brings to mind the remaining clothes still standing between the heat of his skin and Takami’s, and it’s only then that he thinks to pull back, to pant for air while he tries to think through the unfathomable complexity of stripping the weight of boots and pants from his body so he can press even closer against the other.

“Here,” he says, the words incoherent but his movement somewhat more leading as he lets one of his hands go so he can reach for his boots instead. “Let me…”

“Ah,” Takami says, and he’s sliding away, dropping off the edge of the bed to the floor before Haruto has yet made sense of what he intends to do. Haruto sucks in a startled inhale, reaching out to return his fingers to the weight of Takami’s hair, and Takami is kneeling at his feet, ducking his head as if he’s preparing to swear an oath of fealty. Haruto’s skin prickles into heat, his breathing catching on self-consciousness at the position, and then Takami reaches for his boot to loosen the laces against the front holding it tight to Haruto’s calf. Haruto’s fingers curl tighter in Takami’s hair for a moment, and Takami bows his head in immediate surrender, his hair spilling forward off his shoulder as he loosens Haruto’s boot and reaches to draw it free.

“You don’t--” Haruto starts, and then the heat rising in his veins stalls his words and steals his breath, and he has to close his mouth while he fights himself back to coherency around the rattle of his heart in his chest. “You don’t have to do that, I can--”

“I know,” Takami says, and then he glances up from under the angle of his lashes and the shadow of his hair falling in front of his face. His gaze is steady, his expression clear; he looks certain in himself, without any trace of that trembling emotion that was there outside the room. There’s no hesitation behind his eyes now, no conflicting reactions; just contentment, and warmth, and such absolute devotion that it steals Haruto’s breath just to glimpse it. It’s only for a moment; then Takami is ducking his head again, hiding his expression behind his hair once more as he urges Haruto’s boot down and off his heel, and Haruto is left to gasp for breath against the rush of heat that runs through him from the intensity of Takami’s gaze. “I want to.”

“Okay,” Haruto says, sounding as breathless and shaky as he feels. His first boot comes free; Takami sets it aside carefully before turning to the second to begin the process of unlacing the top inches of that one as well. Haruto’s fingers fit into the dark fall of Takami’s hair; he can see the shift of the other’s shoulders under the weight of the strands, can see the muscle along Takami’s arms moving as he tugs at the laces of Haruto’s boot. Haruto wants to press his mouth to the heat of Takami’s skin, wants to push back the shadow of the other’s hair from his neck and kiss against the tension there, to feel the way Takami’s skin moves as he pulls Haruto’s boot free of his heel. Haruto is tipping in without meaning to, angling forward towards the curve of Takami’s shoulder as his other boot comes loose, and Takami raises his head to look up at him just as Haruto lifts the dark of the other’s hair between both his hands.

“Ichiro,” he says, and there’s nothing to follow the breathless weight of the word but that’s okay, Takami isn’t waiting for more, he’s turning his head up and shutting his eyes and the whole of his expression is soft and warm and expectant, as if he’s been waiting his whole life to be right here, right as they are. Haruto leans in, lets his eyes shut to block out the distraction of vision as his mouth meets Takami’s, and all his attention melts into warmth, into the weight of affection so tight in his chest it’s hard to breathe past. Takami is shifting against the floor, struggling to pull his boots off with far less care than he showed to the task of removing Haruto’s, and Haruto is sinking his fingers farther into Takami’s hair to hold the other steady against the shift of his mouth. Takami makes a low sound against his lips, offering the outline of a groan at Haruto’s tongue, and when Haruto curls his fingers into fists Takami rocks up over his knees, shoving to push his second boot free as he braces a hand alongside Haruto’s hip so he can push himself to upright. Haruto keeps his hold where it is, urging Takami in closer by the expedience of tugging at the other’s hair, and Takami leans in over him on the bed, letting Haruto’s hold pull him closer as he steadies them against the sheets. His leg is warm against Haruto’s, the shift in his shoulders smooth under the angle of Haruto’s wrists, and Haruto can feel the whole of his body trying to arch up, to press closer to the promise of Takami’s skin against his own.

It takes effort to loosen his grip. There’s something satisfying about having Takami’s hair under his hands, about having the dark silk of the strands tangling against his skin; but he manages it, eventually, more because he needs to free his hand to fumble for Takami’s pants than for any other reason. Takami has one knee up alongside Haruto’s hip, his leg pressing in close against the other’s thigh, but the glow of contact between their legs is nothing compared to the flushed heat that meets Haruto’s fingertips when he reaches to press his hand in against the front of the other’s pants. Haruto’s breath catches, his heart skips fast in his chest, and over him Takami shudders, his whole body quivering with tension as if he’s a string drawn suddenly taut under Haruto’s touch.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasps, his head ducking down over Haruto’s bare shoulder like he’s trying to hide his face, like he can’t remember how to keep his head up. “I.”

“Ichiro,” Haruto says, his voice quavering in the back of his throat as his fingers press closer, as his palm urges friction against the front of Takami’s pants. “I want--can I?”

Takami’s breathing rushes out of him in a shaky spill. “Yes,” he says, and Haruto moves at once, without waiting for any further encouragement. His hand is still pressing close against Takami’s pants, his palm still offering weight against the resistance of the other’s length, but he eases his fingers out of Takami’s hair as well, sliding them back and free so he can reach for the laces holding the fabric close against the other’s hips. The knot gives way under his fingers, the motion easy even inverted from the perspective Haruto usually has, and at his shoulder Takami is ducking his head, is pressing his forehead hard to Haruto’s shirt and breathing like he can’t find air for the heat around them, as if he’s trying to fill his lungs with the radiance of the other’s skin instead of oxygen. Haruto drags the laces free, pulling at the front of Takami’s pants to ease the fabric open to his fingers, and then the cloth is loose, and he’s reaching past it, and his fingers are dragging across the flushed heat of Takami’s skin and Takami is groaning at his shoulder, his hips canting forward in reflexive want. Haruto can hardly breathe, can’t find space in his thoughts for any kind of logic about what’s happening; there’s just Takami hot against his palm, the resistance of the other’s cock sliding slick over the friction of his hand, and Haruto’s own breathing catching to frantic speed as his fingers curl in to map out the shape of Takami’s length against his touch.

“Oh,” he says, and “god” and he’s moving on instinct, on reflex, his fingers wrapping in close around the width of Takami’s cock against him. It’s almost familiar, almost an echo of the fit of his own length against his palm in the late-night shadows of his bedroom; but this is different, Takami is a little longer and a little narrower in his grip, and most of all it’s Takami’s body that is tensing with the weight of his fingers, it’s Takami’s voice breaking over a groan at Haruto’s shoulder instead of his own. Haruto clutches at the back of Takami’s neck, his thoughts too dizzy to give him the space to think through what he’s doing, and Takami’s arm is tightening around him, bracing hard at his shoulders until Haruto is sure he’s supporting more of Takami’s weight than Takami is himself. Haruto’s stroking up with awkward haste, his body working on instinct and want for more of the pant of Takami’s breathing at his shoulder more than anything else; but there’s another thought forming itself in the back of his head, some half-formed idea of Takami’s skin pressing flush against his own, of stripping away the too-tight friction of his pants clinging against the heat of his cock and fitting Takami’s knees between his, of fitting his hands flat to Takami’s skin and feeling the shift of the other moving over him.

“Ichiro,” Haruto says, and Takami shudders against him, his arm tensing and his cock jerking in Haruto’s hold. Haruto’s skin flushes hot, self-awareness blistering through him to leave him breathless with the power he has, with how quickly he can undo Takami with just a word. He lets his hand drop, his fingers skipping over the span of Takami’s chest to weight at his hip instead, and against him Takami bucks forward, his whole body arching in to grind closer against the support of Haruto against him. Haruto’s fingers clench tight at Takami’s hip, his wrist flexes to draw up over Takami’s length, and he’s speaking in a rush, words toppling from his lips before he can hear them in the space of his own head. “Can I take your pants off?”

“Yes,” Takami says at once, surrender so quick to his lips it’s as if he was expecting Haruto’s request, his head ducking into a nod against the damp heat of the other’s shoulder. “Yes.” His hand drops to Haruto’s wrist, his hold closing around the other’s arm to push his hand away; Haruto can feel the tremor running through Takami’s fingers against him, can feel the thrum of adrenaline so hot under Takami’s skin that his hand shakes as he lets Haruto’s hold go. “Anything you want.” He turns his head, his mouth pressing the warmth of a kiss against the line of Haruto’s neck for a moment; and then he’s pulling away, disentangling himself from Haruto and getting to his feet while Haruto is still gasping from the surge of heat that hit him with the touch of Takami’s mouth. Takami ducks his head, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his pants to urge them off his hips and down his legs; and Haruto is reaching for his own, dragging at the laces holding his pants on with far less care than he showed with Takami’s. His heart is pounding too fast for patience, his whole body too flushed with heat for gentleness; his clothing is a burden, it clings to the heat of his skin and holds him away from the friction of Takami’s body, and even the self-consciousness of stripping himself bare for Takami’s gaze doesn’t so much as slow the movement of Haruto’s hands. The fabric slides free of his hips, drags down his thighs in a rush of cool air against warm skin, and Haruto is kicking a foot free just as Takami is straightening from stepping out of his own clothes. Haruto shoves at his pants, letting them fall to the floor alongside the tangle he and Takami made of their shirts, and then he’s looking back up and reaching out for Takami as quickly as he raises his chin.

“Come back,” he says, and Takami is moving before being told, stepping forward in immediate response to the gesture of Haruto’s hands. His fingers fit against the other’s, his lashes dip as quickly as he ducks his head down, and when Haruto pulls Takami follows his lead to join him across the soft of the sheets over the bed. Takami’s knee bumps Haruto’s hip, Takami’s leg fits between Haruto’s thighs, and as their bodies press close together the sound Haruto makes is echoed and thrown back by the heat of Takami’s mouth against his. Takami’s cock is hard against his hip, Takami’s thigh is warm against him; when Haruto bucks up in reflexive urging for more he runs up against Takami’s body, grinds himself close against the resistance of the other’s leg with a flare of heat that prickles satisfaction up the whole length of his spine.

“ _Oh_ ,” Takami gasps against his mouth, sounding so strained on heat it almost makes the shape of a sob. “My prince.”

“Please,” Haruto says, not sure what he needs but knowing he’s desperate for it, that his whole body is aching with the need for Takami’s hands on him and Takami’s body close against his own. “Touch me, Ichiro.”

Takami chokes off a breath at Haruto’s lips. “As you command,” he says, the words even then sounding rough and desperate in his throat. His arm braces over Haruto’s shoulder, his elbow weights hard at the bed, and it’s his free hand that slides over Haruto’s chest, that trails from the other’s shoulder down against the midline of his ribcage and over the soft tremor of his stomach. Haruto can feel himself trembling, his whole body quivering with ticklish response, but Takami’s fingers are sliding lower and he’s aching for the contact, he can feel his cock thrumming with heat like it’s begging for Takami’s touch against it. Takami’s thumb catches at him, calluses dragging rough over sensitive skin, and Haruto moans under him, his hips jerking to buck up against the other’s palm. It’s Takami who breathes out a gusting sigh, who shivers like it’s Haruto’s hands on him, but his fingers are sliding lower, down against the curving length of Haruto’s cock and farther, to slide gently along the heavy weight of his balls between his thighs. Haruto groans, his back arching to rock him up closer as his knees angle reflexively wider, and Takami’s touch slides farther still, against the inside line of his thighs and back to skim against the sensitive skin at Haruto’s entrance. Haruto’s body flexes on a shudder of sensation, his back curving as Takami’s fingers weight against him, and at his shoulder Takami makes a faint, helpless sound, something halfway between a whimper and a groan from so deep in his chest Haruto can feel it purring over his skin.

“More,” Haruto says, his hand sliding over Takami’s shoulder to push at the weight of the other’s hair. His skin is flushing with waves of heat, his cock is arching towards his stomach; Takami’s fingers against him are carrying impossible force, it’s as if Haruto can feel every movement the other takes as Takami shifts against him. “Ichiro, can you...I want more.”

“Yes,” Takami says, his voice dark and breaking into a range Haruto has never heard in the other’s mouth before, a tone Haruto didn’t know Takami was able to hit. He takes a breath, the sound of it struggling audibly in the back of his throat; when he speaks again his voice is minimally more level, a little steadier over his tongue. “Do you have oil here, I can--”

“Yes,” Haruto says, agreement coming too fast in his haste for what Takami is offering. “Yes, yeah, it’s right here, hang on.” He pushes himself up onto an elbow, twisting onto his side as Takami draws away from him for a moment to give him a chance to reach up towards the head of the bed. Haruto fumbles under the fall of the blankets, his attention focused on the drag of his hand under the sheets until his fingers find the smooth slick of the jar he’s looking for.

“Here.” He offers the container back to Takami as fast as he’s turning, his breathing rushing with anticipation as if he’s been sprinting, as if this is the end of one of their practice sessions instead of the start of something entirely different. Takami is staring at Haruto’s face, his eyes dark beneath the shadow of his lashes and his lips parted on the heat of his breathing; he looks completely distracted, like he’s forgotten where he is and what he’s doing for admiring the person in front of him. Haruto’s cheeks flush, self-consciousness glowing in his veins at being looked at with so much weight, as if he’s worthy of so much attention; but Takami is taking the jar from him, his movements more automatic than intentional, and Haruto can let himself fall back to the bed, can let an arm fall across his face to shadow the blush across his cheeks as he tries to catch his breath back to calm. There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation from the end of the bed; and then the click of a lid turning against its container, a drag of friction Haruto can feel run through his whole body, and Takami is taking a breath like he’s bracing himself, like he’s preparing to lose himself in some all-encompassing task.

“Just relax,” he says, as if there’s any way Haruto can possibly relax with his whole body thrumming with anticipation, with every sound of Takami’s movement trembling through every part of his body with helpless heat. “I’ll take care of it from here.”

“I know,” Haruto says against the inside of his arm. “You always take care of me.” Takami huffs a sound, a little bit a laugh and a little bit a gasp, and Haruto has to lift his arm from over his face so he can see the expression that goes along with that reaction. Takami is looking at him again, his mouth so soft and shaky he looks a little bit like he’s going to cry; Haruto can feel that expression settle into the inside of his chest, weighting him into place as if it’s locking him into himself, as if it’s making a better person of him than he has ever felt himself to be before. Takami sets the jar aside, dropping it into the soft of the blankets without looking, and then he’s reaching for Haruto’s hip, bracing his grip against the other’s body to hold him steady as he fits his hand between the open angle of Haruto’s thighs. When he ducks his head his hair falls forward over his face, the dark weight of it sliding to curtain over his features until all Haruto can tell of the other’s reaction comes from the catch of his breathing in his throat and the tremor of the fingers against his skin. Takami’s touch brushes against him, fingertips sliding slick over Haruto’s entrance, and Haruto shudders with reflexive response, feeling the heat of Takami’s skin glow against his like sunlight. He tips his legs wider, sighs out a breath of heat; and Takami pushes, and Takami’s touch slides into him, and Haruto’s whole attention narrows down to the strange friction pressing into his body.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasps, and his back is arching, his legs are flexing to curve him up as if to meet Takami’s touch. “ _Ichiro_.”

“Relax,” Takami says, but his head is still ducked down, and his hand is still moving, Haruto can feel the other’s touch sliding deeper into him even as he speaks. It’s a strange sensation, a drag over unfamiliar nerve endings sparking sensation bright up the whole of Haruto’s spine, but there’s something satisfying about it, some sense of being laid open, of Takami’s fingers feeling out the heat of his body where Haruto’s never been touched before, urging sensation into him like he’s never before experienced. He’s thrumming with heat, his whole body quivering like he’s the string of a bow under Takami’s touch, and still Takami is sliding deeper, farther into him, urging Haruto open around his touch with gentle insistence behind his movement.

“Oh,” Haruto says again, his coherency failing him, his vision catching out-of-focus against the bed hangings overhead and the dip of the fabric under its own weight. His gaze slides across the drape of the cloth, tracing out the curve with strangely precise focus while the rest of his body quivers with sensation, with the strange too-much heat that comes with the thrust of Takami’s fingers. Haruto is trying to catch his breath, trying to relax, trying to arch up for more all at the same time; and Takami’s fingers tighten at his hip, Takami takes a breath of anticipation, and when he says “Please, relax” it’s more a comfort than a command, more soothing than an order. Haruto lets all the breath rush out of his lungs at once, lets his body go slack over the soft of the bed under him, and two of Takami’s fingers slide against him, pressing close against his entrance to urge for more space. Haruto breathes out of lungs already empty, trying to ease himself down to some impossible level of calm like he’s deliberately draining all the resistance from his limbs; and Takami’s hand shifts, and Takami’s fingers slide forward and into him in a slippery drag of pressure. It aches, Haruto can feel the strain of the other’s motion curve up the whole line of his back; but Takami is breathing harder over him, his inhales catching into a strange, hiccuping rhythm like he can’t believe what’s happening in front of him, and Haruto wants more, deeper, wants to see what happens if he pushes forward into the near-pain of the heat in him and lets it flare to an open flame.

“Ichiro,” he says, and Takami makes a sound far in the back of his throat, a noise so faint and desperate it sounds like a plea more than anything else. Haruto lifts his head by an inch, just enough to look down to see Takami kneeling at the end of the bed, his fingers so tense at Haruto’s hip that Haruto can see the strain running all the way up the outside of the other’s arm to flex hard against his shoulder. It’s thrilling just to see, just to have a clear sight of how much tension Takami has building against the lines of his body as he moves over Haruto; but then there’s his touch, too, the angle of his wrist and the press of his arm and his fingers sliding into a rhythm as he works into the other. Haruto can’t catch his breath, can hardly think through the logic of what he wants, of what he wants to give Takami, of what he wants Takami to give to him tonight, now, while they have the opportunity Haruto isn’t sure they’ll get again. “Ichiro, please.”

“Yes,” Takami says, and it’s surrender, it’s obedience, even the tension in his shoulders is giving way to capitulation as he flexes his fingers at Haruto’s hip to steady them both as he eases his fingers back and free of the other’s body. Haruto doesn’t have to offer any further suggestion; Takami is moving on his own, now, closing his slick-wet hand around himself and stroking up with careful intention more intended for preparation than for pleasure. His head is still ducked down, his features still cast into shadow by the fall of his hair; but Haruto can see the part of his mouth, can see the soft incoherence at Takami’s lips as he breathes fast in time with the stroke of his palm over himself.

“Here,” Haruto says, and he’s pushing up onto an elbow, reaching out without any thought in his head except to be closer, to remove the gap of space between himself and the other. His fingers catch Takami’s hair, his touch urges the dark of it back from the other’s face, and Takami looks up in a rush, his head lifting as he turns his gaze full on Haruto in front of him. His mouth is soft, his eyes are wide; he looks overwhelmed, like he’s struggling to process what’s happening, like he’s having trouble even recognizing Haruto in front of him. Haruto pushes at Takami’s hair, catching the fall of it against his wrist as he fits his hand to the back of the other’s neck, and when he pulls Takami follows the urging of his hand, his lashes fluttering to submission as Haruto draws him back and down to the sheets.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Takami tells him, his gaze clinging against Haruto’s mouth instead of meeting his eyes. He’s bracing a hand against the sheets over Haruto’s shoulder, his hips are pressing close against Haruto’s knees; as Haruto tips his legs apart Takami fits in against him, the weight of his body urging Haruto’s thighs wider by inches. Haruto can feel the heat of Takami’s skin against his, can feel the catch of sweat-damp heat against itself as Takami presses himself closer; and then Takami tips his hips forward, and the slick head of his cock bumps against Haruto, and all the rest of Haruto’s attention scatters to let him focus entirely on the heat of Takami’s cock sliding against his skin. There’s pressure against him, weight urging forward as his body offers instinctive resistance to the force; and then Haruto eases, and Takami slides forward into him, and they both make a sound so absolutely matched between them that Haruto can’t tell where his voice ends and Takami’s begins. There’s just heat spilling between their lips and sliding forward into Haruto’s body, and over him Takami is trembling but Haruto is reaching up for the other’s shoulders, Haruto’s arm is fitting around Takami’s neck, and when Takami’s forehead presses to Haruto’s skin Haruto’s fingers are sliding into Takami’s hair, Haruto is gasping for breath to match the heat expanding to press against the whole inside of his chest.

“Ichiro,” he pants, and Takami makes a helpless noise into his shoulder and rocks in closer, his body pressing flush against Haruto as his cock slides deeper into the other’s body. Haruto’s legs flex, his back arches, his exhale tenses into a moan. “ _Ah_.”

“Tell me,” Takami gasps, sounding like he can’t breathe, like he’s drowning in the heat of Haruto’s skin against his, of Haruto’s body under him. Over his shoulder Haruto can feel Takami’s arm trembling with the effort of supporting his body. “If I hurt you.”

“I will,” Haruto says, and fast on its heels, “you’re not” as he curls his hand in at the back of Takami’s head to urge him closer, to pull the weight of the other’s body against his. Takami capitulates immediately, with no resistance in the strength of his arms, and Haruto tightens his hold, pinning Takami against him while the other’s legs flex through the effort of a deliberate thrust. Takami’s skin slides against Haruto’s, his body catching sticky with sweat against the other’s; Haruto feels dizzy, undone, like the radiance of Takami’s body has intoxicated him better than wine might, has swept aside his awareness of his position and his responsibilities and his reality, of everything other than this exact moment and the way Takami’s skin feels against his, the way Takami’s body shifts over and into him. His gaze has fixed on the curtains overhead again, his attention wandering along that particular curve of fabric with idle focus; but all his awareness is elsewhere, his vision is hazing out of importance for the immediacy of the physical sensation spilling into him. Takami is tense against him, Haruto can feel every full-body flex of action the other takes, but Haruto is pliant, is easing to the force Takami is giving him without needing to think about it at all, now. There’s heat low in his stomach, friction stirring its way up his spine like the tide easing its way along a beach, and then Takami’s hand presses to his hip, Takami’s fingers drag across his stomach as the other works through the effort of feeling his way between the close press of their bodies. Haruto blinks, his dizzy attention pulled back into focus for a moment by curiosity, and it’s just as he’s opening his mouth to ask what Takami is doing that the other’s fingers close around his length and whatever words he intended to offer give way to a shout that curves his spine inches off the bed and splashes his voice hot against the walls around them.

“My prince,” Takami says, his voice shaking even muffled at Haruto’s shoulder, and he starts to stroke, and Haruto is arching into the friction, his whole body quivering into heat far more familiar and immediate than the distant haze of pleasure from Takami moving into him. This is brilliant, instant, satisfying in a way his whole body recognizes and welcomes with the sudden tension of anticipation, and then there’s the heat there too, the sensation of Takami sliding into him like a drumbeat to lie under the immediacy of Takami’s fingers dragging up and over him. Haruto’s panting for air, his fingers are clutching at Takami’s hair, he can’t think straight and can’t remember why he should care; the only thing that matters is this, right here, right now, Takami pressing him to the bed and working into and over him, and Haruto’s awareness is giving way, he can feel the pressure inside him tensing and coalescing into certainty, into expectation too absolute to be ignored.

“Ichiro,” he gasps, his voice weak for the desperation of his breathing, his whole body straining as if to press itself nearer against the weight of Takami bearing him down to the sheets. “I...I’m...Ichiro, don’t stop.”

“As you command,” Takami says, and then, in a rush that gives better voice to the heat in him than even the pant of his breathing: “Haruto,” his voice cradling the name with all the tender affection Haruto has ever seen in the dark of the other’s eyes. Haruto chokes on his inhale, his chest aching on sudden, startling appreciation, and against his spine he can feel the tension rising in him collapse into certainty and give way to drop him slack to the sheets.

“Oh,” Haruto says, feeling very calm and very distant. “Ichiro,” and Takami’s fingers slide over him, and his vision hazes to white, his chest flexes on a groan he can feel in the pit of his stomach and the tips of his fingers as he shudders himself into orgasm under the slide of Takami’s grip. His body is flexing, tensing and easing in reflexive, involuntary ripples, and over him Takami is gasping, is whimpering over the shape of Haruto’s name as if it’s a prayer on his lips, acknowledgment of something too beautiful for him to bear in silence. Haruto’s never heard Takami sound like that, wants to give voice to appreciation of the echoing heat in the other’s throat; but he can’t find coherency, can’t offer any kind of speech around the tremors that are rippling through him with each pulse of pleasure that quivers through his body. He’s never come like this, he’s never _felt_ like this, with his whole body humming with heat and friction inside and out, and it’s as he’s gasping through a desperate inhale that the rhythm of Takami’s hand moving over him finally gives way, that the motion of Takami’s hips thrusting forward stutters and stills as the other moans over Haruto’s name turned to helpless heat at his lips. Haruto whimpers, his hold against Takami’s hair tightening for a moment of appreciative friction, and over him Takami’s head comes down, Takami presses his face in close against Haruto’s shoulder as he pants through the rush of his own orgasm. They stay still like that for a moment, both of them trembling with the force of aftershocks and the span of air between them liquid with the heat of their breathing; and then Haruto shudders through an exhale, and Takami’s weight presses hard against him, and Haruto can feel all the tension drain out of Takami’s body as clearly as it eases from his own.

They are both very still for a long span of seconds. Haruto lets them go past uncounted and unmeasured; better to gaze at the bed hangings draping to elegance overhead, better to let his thoughts wander through the hazy heat of satisfaction he’s experiencing right now than to think about outside this room, outside this bed, outside this moment. There’s more to come for them, he knows, responsibility and stress and the dangers and adrenaline of combat; but that’s later, so far distant from the present it might as well be another lifetime, and right now, here, he has the dull ache of strain against the inside of his thighs and the warm friction of Takami’s body over his and there, hot against the curve of his shoulder, Takami’s breath as the other takes a deliberate inhale to fill his lungs with intention.

“Haruto,” he says, and Haruto shivers with the sound of his name, with the low weight of the vowels pulled into something new and brilliant and beautiful in a way Haruto has never thought his name to be, before. Takami hesitates, lets his breath go in an exhale before filling his lungs again like he’s bracing himself. “I love you.”

The words aren’t a surprise. They should be, Haruto supposes; it should be startling, or at least some kind of a shock, to hear a confession of affection with so little warning. But Takami’s been telling him already, for days and months and years before now, and all Haruto feels is satisfaction, as if the sound of the words on Takami’s lips is giving voice to some truth that he has known his whole life, he thinks, or for so much of it as makes no difference in the present at all.

“Yes,” he says, and he shuts his eyes, and slides his fingers farther up into the dark of Takami’s hair falling over his fingers and across his chest. “I love you too.”

They haven’t shed their responsibilities. The future is still waiting for them, still weighted with the same uncertainty and danger it was when they opened the door. But just now, just for a moment, Haruto has Takami huffing into almost disbelieving affection at his shoulder, and Takami’s hair tangling silk-smooth over his fingers, and just for now that’s enough.


	13. Trade

Haruto can’t take the quiet.

It’s the worst of everything, he thinks. The responsibility is bad enough, the high keen of panic in the back of his head worse; but with the silence filling the forest around them he feels like every frantic beat of his heart will be loud enough to give them all away, that at any moment he’ll startle and jerk and make some noise loud enough to shatter away all the secrecy they’ve spent the last hour attaining. Takami is at his elbow, pressing so near his fingers are all but tangling with Haruto’s at his side; Haruto is more grateful to the support than he can say, to the steady wall of the other’s body so certain alongside him. It’s Takami who has been guiding him, touching his fingers to Haruto’s wrist in confirmation before Haruto gestures the men around them to shift forward by another several feet; even knowing that Takami is just one person, just one man, the reassurance of someone else’s opinion is enough to let Haruto go on breathing and go on moving forward even as his heart pounds in his chest and his breathing catches to strain with every inhale.

They’re still, right now. Haruto can see the break of the trees at the edge of the enemy encampment, the clear spill of illumination through the gap in the canopy overhead lighting up the forest floor to the rich reds and browns that have been shadowed into darkness for him and the men following him for the last few hours. They’re painfully close, Haruto thinks; all it would take is one person drawing closer to the edge of the encampment, or one enemy soldier with unusually good vision to glance their way, and even the camouflage of the dark clothes the entire contingent is wearing will do them no good. They’ll be run down, they’ll be overcome, and without the backup that is meant to arrive in a few scant minutes they’ll have no chance of survival except to flee. Haruto can feel his pulse picking up faster even than it was running in his veins, skipping over beats like it’s too panicked to manage consistency; if the reinforcements don’t arrive soon they’ll surely be seen, and if they’re attacked he has no idea what he ought to order them to do. Should they retreat back into the trees, melt into the shadows around them and save what of their men they can? Or should they hold fast, pinning down the front line for as long as they can to provide support to what reinforcements can make it before they all fall? Courage says the second is the right option, far better than abandoning the following group to absolute destruction themselves; but Haruto isn’t sure he can give the order to hold, not when he knows he’ll be dooming every man around him to a death no less permanent for how noble an act it will be. Surely the reinforcements should have been here by now, he thinks, the message ought to have come; will they be coming at all? Should he pull his group back while there’s still time to salvage their survival, perhaps still time to call off the mission entirely? He can’t think straight, can’t form his mind to clarity; he’s feeling dizzy, breathless, like his knees are trembling and the world underneath his feet is spinning out from him, and then there’s a hand at his elbow, and fingers close hard over the dark sleeve of his coat. Haruto gasps an inhale, surprise filling his lungs when reflex proved insufficient, and when he looks sideways Takami is staring at him, his eyes dark and steady and fixed on Haruto’s expression as if to offer the same support the press of his fingers is giving. It’s enough to ease some of the pressure on Haruto’s chest just for the seeing of it, enough to unravel his breathing into something closer to calm than he’s been all morning; and then Takami tips his head, and Haruto looks back, and the scout at the back of the group is holding a dark banner over his head in the sign for incoming reinforcements.

There’s nothing left to do. Haruto knows it, can feel the certainty of the moment settle over his shoulders like an unshakeable burden, as if he’s become a simple tool to move through the necessities of the next few steps. At least he doesn’t have to think about what to do, doesn’t have to hesitate in his next action. It’s simple, straightforward, a series of movements too well-defined for him to stumble over: lift his arm up over his head, hold for several long seconds while the men around him look up to see the gesture, as they nudge each other and nod in silent understanding. Only when everyone is watching does he drop his arm, feeling his skin prickling self-conscious with the weight of the eyes on him, and reach for the bow strapped to his back where it’s gone untouched for the whole slow-silent process of getting this far. The string is taut under his fingertips, the sleek smooth of the wood settles comfortably against his palm; and all around him everyone else is doing the same, bringing an array of bows around with such total silence Haruto can still hear the murmurs from the camp distant across the clearing before them. Haruto draws an arrow from his quiver, braces his fingers against the feathers marking out the end of it to promise a smooth flight through the air; and then there’s nothing more to do, nothing left to hesitate over. He takes a breath, and lifts his head, and pulls the arrow in against the draw of the bowstring, dragging it back against the resistance as he lifts the bow on level with his gaze. The string drags on itself, creaking with a sound as loud as a shout, under the circumstances; all around him there are dozens of the same sound, a cacophony made up of the whispering strain of bowstrings, and Haruto can feel his heart clench in his chest as he sees heads come up in the camp in front of them, as the enemy’s eyes scan the trees for the source of that telltale sound.

“Fire,” he says, his voice echoing over a volume he hit more by reflex than intention, and as one, at the crack of his voice into the quiet, dozens of arrows fly free of taut bowstrings. Haruto can hear the whistle of feathers cutting close by his head, can feel the wind of movement all around him, and in front of him the camp dissolves into chaos, shouts and screams punctuated by the wave of arrows that fly into them. Haruto is reaching for another arrow without thinking, moving before he realizes he has yet to give another command, but from his elbow: “Fire at will!” Takami shouts, his voice clear and crisp in the air, and some terrified instinct seizes control of Haruto to guide him through the movement of his attack. He’s firing his second arrow, a third, lining up shots without time to think about what he’s hitting or what he’s aiming at; he doesn’t think about the weight of the arrowheads sinking into bodies, chests or legs or throats, just looses and reaches for another arrow, looking for a new target as quickly as the first has fallen. There’s a rhythm to the motion around him, the whole of his group is falling into an almost-pattern with each other as they move; but the camp is collecting itself from amidst the hail of devastation Haruto and his company are raining upon them, surging forward with more speed and composure than Haruto expected. There’s the glint of sunlight off steel, the bared teeth of weaponry promising destruction for their attackers; and from the other side of the clearing, a rush of movement, shouts and action as the support group surges up and out of the trees around the encampment. Haruto fires a last arrow, reaches for another without thinking; but there’s chaos before him, movement and noise too great for him to follow, and whatever clear shots he once had are gone as rapidly as the reinforcements charge into the melee.

“ _Fall back_ ,” Takami shouts, his voice echoing miraculously loud enough to be heard over the roar of combat before them, and there’s that touch at Haruto’s arm again, fingers closing close around his sleeve. “My prince,” closer than Haruto expected, so near that he can hear the words clearly even over the roar of sound from before them. He turns his head, his hands still occupied with his bow and his newest arrow, and Takami’s staring at him, his eyes wide and his attention focused. He still has his own bow in his other hand, the smooth curve of it dropped down alongside his hip, but he’s paying no attention to it; his fingers are flexing against Haruto’s arm instead, offering pressure enough to pull the others attention away from the heat in the air, the dizzy rush of blood in his veins, the panicked awareness of his own existence measured out by the heartbeats hammering inside his chest.

“Fall back,” Takami says, and Haruto can’t hear the words but he can see them, can make the shape of them fit close against the drag of Takami’s mouth. He nods, the duck of his head as much to shake himself out of his daze as to agree, and when Takami pulls he stumbles in the other’s wake, his bow dipping down to his side as he lets the other draw him back and away. All around them there’s movement, action, shadows retreating back into the dark of the trees and away from the illumination behind them, but there’s no one looking to Haruto anymore, no one waiting for his command to take action. They’re done, it’s over, all those hours of stress and waiting are concluded in the span of a few seconds, and Haruto can feel his mouth break into a startled smile, can feel his breathing rush out of him in a huff of disbelief.

“Oh,” he says, “that wasn’t so bad” and it’s as the words fall from his lips that he sees the man running ahead of him collapse and drop to the ground as if he’s suddenly lost all the strength in his body. Takami misses a step, his fingers tighten at Haruto’s arm; and then there’s a burst of movement, a _whir_ of sound an inch from Haruto’s face, and it’s as an arrow thuds solidly into a tree just in front of them that he realizes what’s happening.

“ _Ah_ ” he starts, coherency giving way as his whole body tenses against the rush of icy panic that hits him; but there’s no time to find words, no time even to think, because the enemy is on top of them, there are men tumbling forward through the trees to fall upon the front row of Haruto’s group and bear them to the ground in what looks like slow motion to Haruto’s staring eyes. The first few go down immediately, caught too off-guard to even drop their bows and reach for a more close-range weapon; but then one soldier gets his sword free and up in time to catch the downward blow of one of his attackers, and the leading edge of the attack stalls and breaks against the resistance of Haruto’s men as they begin to defend themselves. There’s movement everywhere, the sound of metal screeching over metal and shouts of victory and groans of pain alike; and Haruto’s hands are still full, his grip is still occupied by the bow in one hand and the arrow in the other.

“Oh,” he says, looking down towards the weight in his hands, the smooth wood of the bow and the soft of feathers at the end of the arrow caught in his fingers. He has to free his grip, he thinks distantly, he needs his hands to protect himself; but when he moves to replace the arrow in his quiver the movement feels syrup-slow, like his actions are dragging long seconds slower than his mind can wait for. The arrow catches at the strap running over his shoulder, stalling for a handful of heartbeats that might as well be hours for how fast they rush his breathing; he can see attackers incoming, can blink through the slow drag of his lashes as they approach, bare steel upraised and mouths open in shouts of aggressive threat. Haruto’s fingers loose the arrow, finally letting it go so it can fall forgotten to the ground beneath him, but he can’t move fast enough, he can see the blow of a sword edge coming for him but he can’t get his muscles to move with enough speed to match it, he’s only just closing his fingers around the hilt of the sword at his hip and the blade is going to swing down at him, is going to cleave through the soft leather of his coat and down through his skin and muscle and--

“ _Stop_ ” a voice comes, high and shrill and straining on panic, and Haruto blinks, and the world speeds forward as Takami’s arm swings in front of his face, as Takami manages to take a step forward between Haruto and the pair of attackers. Haruto’s eyes go wide, his breath stalls in his throat, but Takami is ducking his head, is holding his hands up over his head as his shoulders lift in involuntary attempt to protect himself from that downward stroke. “Surrender, we surrender!”

There’s a moment of time between Haruto hearing the words on Takami’s lips and his vision catching up with what’s happening in front of him. He can feel shock settling into his chest, clenching tight in his throat with sudden, desperate hope; but that steel is still catching the sunlight, it’s still raised with all the threat its edge carries, and now it’s Takami who stands in the arc of its movement.

“ _No_ ,” Haruto gasps, his voice skidding out in his chest into a wail of rejection of what he sees coming, of the conclusion Takami has stepped into. His free hand is coming out, is closing at Takami’s shoulder, is tightening as if to hold the other where he is, as if to pull him back to the safety of continued survival instead of mere moments out from blood-spattered destruction. Takami stumbles at the grip of Haruto’s hand, his balance giving way as Haruto’s hold bears down heavy at his shoulder; and over them the swing of the sword stalls, caught back as their attacker’s expression breaks into humanizing shock instead of the fixed fury of violence. Haruto falls forward, the weight of his body slamming hard against Takami’s shoulder, and when Takami drops Haruto goes with him, the both of them collapsing to land bruise-hard on their knees on the forest floor in front of their attackers.

There’s some symbolism there, Haruto is sure, some part of his royal blood that should flinch at the idea of falling into explicit surrender before a mere enemy soldier. He doesn’t care. He’s still breathing, his lungs are working hard on adrenaline-laced heat, and under his hold Takami’s shoulder is working on the same panic-stricken panting, and Haruto would be willing to hand over whatever claim to power he may have to keep both those facts true as long as possible.


	14. Relief

The enemy is very kind to Haruto after he’s been taken prisoner.

He’s kept apart from the other soldiers, both those that fell and were taken away for perfunctory medical attention and those that dropped their weapons and raised their hands in obedience to the demand of Takami’s voice ringing out surrender enough for all of them. The other soldiers are taken to receive medical treatment, or to be held as the prisoners of war they are; but Haruto is kept apart, separate even from the men he was meant to be leading. He’s brought back to the main castle, is led through the hallways more as an honored visitor than the hostage he is, and when he’s brought to rooms almost half as large as his own and nearly as well-appointed it’s with apologies that they have nothing better and requests that he might return under more favorable circumstances.His escorts seem sincere in their protestations, as if the discrepancy between aiming weapons at him and this polite small talk doesn’t bother them at all; as far as Haruto can tell they really do expect him to return for visits of state at the conclusion of the negotiations, and for there to be no hard feelings at such a time. It’s bizarre to think about, to try to separate the immediacy of joining in the danger and destruction of combat from the strange, distant politeness of formal interactions, and it leaves Haruto’s skin prickling with discomfort that has nothing to do with the panic-sweat chilling under the dark of his clothes. He could do with a bath, he thinks, and a change of clothes; and they’re brought to him within the hour, an expectation of his needs more than a response to his unvoiced request. Haruto thanks the servants, and scrubs at his skin until it aches and burns from the friction, and then he pulls on the undershirt and pants of the formal attire brought to him and lies down in the unfamiliar soft of the bed to stare blankly at the ceiling overhead.

There’s nothing to do, nothing to think about except the events of the morning that are exactly what he doesn’t want to think of; his head feels strange, hollow and echoey like a box within which the reality of his situation can rattle itself into odd resonances and shapes. The hangings overhead are thinner than those in his bed at home, a paler color instead of the saturated blue he’s used to seeing; looking up at them reminds him of the last time he was in his own bed, reminds him of the soft of Takami’s hair against his hands and the heat of Takami’s body pressing to his and the breathless gasp of the other’s words at his shoulder, with the steady weight of his voice broken apart on heat and desire and pleasure all three. Haruto can recall Takami’s gaze shadowed over with want, can remember the strain of his own body arching up to meet the slide of the other’s fingers and the steady rhythm of his hips; he can call up the sound of Takami’s voice over his name, can remember the open pull of _Haruto_ past the other’s heat-parted lips, and it’s then he has to shut his eyes to the burn of tears behind them and has to press his lips tight together against the knot of emotion in his throat. It’s foolish to cry, he knows, he has no right to tears when he’s in such comfort compared to the rest of his men; but telling himself that doesn’t ease the ache in his chest, and it doesn’t undo the loneliness so weighting him down to the bed. He’s clean, and warm, and comfortable where he is; but when Haruto twists onto his side to curl in against the soft smooth of the pillows under him, it’s to wish he were instead with Takami and the rest of the men rather than separated on his own.

Negotiations take some time. That’s to be expected, Haruto knows; working through the details of a peace treaty can take months even without the complexities of royal hostages to deal with. He’s not party to the discussions; that’s to be anticipated too, he thinks during the endless hours he spends watching the practice yards he can just make out from the window of the richly appointed prison he’s confined to. He’s a bargaining chip now, not an active player in the situation; he thinks maybe that’s all he’s ever been, that maybe it would have been better for him to accept his role long ago instead of trying to overreach and taking all the men he was leading down with him in his inevitable failure. It’s a distant thought, more idle than self-deprecating, and it’s easy to lose it to the weight of the boredom that is rapidly becoming his constant companion instead.

There’s nothing for him to do, nothing to distract him from his own thoughts and nothing to enliven those same thoughts out of the ruts of logic they fall into within the first day; the only thing that ever varies for him is the view outside his window, where he can see the training field for the Otorian soldiers and new recruits. There’s usually some kind of movement down there, at least during the hours of daylight that illuminate the space to clear bright; after the first day Haruto takes to hovering on the ledge of the window as a matter of course, just to watch the rhythm of movement down below him. It’s a soothing view; the practice drills carry an elegance to them, especially when seen from above, as if all the recruits are learning the steps of a dance until Haruto can see them move with as much grace and consistency as if they’re a single entity. The uniforms are different, the faces unfamiliar; but the pattern of their actions is so similar to Haruto’s experience that he feels sometimes as if he’s in a room of his own castle, looking down at a group led by Takami himself rather than the broad-shouldered man who is in charge of training here. It’s strange to recognize, though of course Haruto realizes that living in another kingdom shouldn’t fundamentally change the humanity of the people within it; but it’s one thing to know that objectively and another to feel it, to see it, to watch recruits stumble clumsily through their practice swings and to be able to picture himself there with them as easily as he might at the practice field back at his own home. Haruto spends his days like that, losing himself to half-formed imaginings of what it would have been like to grow up here, losing grasp of his own identity entirely for long hours of peace as his attention focuses on the trainees below rather than on his own situation; and then, one morning, too early for even the recruits to be out training, there’s a knock at the door, the sound loud and insistent enough to jar Haruto out of the haze of lingering dreams he’s caught in and into the heart-pounding adrenaline of full consciousness at once.

He makes for the door immediately. The pattern of the knock was too strong to allow for delay, the hour too early for it to be the breakfast that usually arrives sometime after dawn; Haruto responds to the insistence of the sound on reflex, stumbling out of bed and towards the door with as much haste as he can muster and without bothering to struggle into a shirt or smooth his hair to tidiness. Responding is more important, that much is clear, and he’s pulling at the handle while he’s still struggling to blink sleep from his eyes and bring his vision back into clarity.

He sees the messenger first. He’s holding a candle before him, the glow illuminating his formal Otorian garb, with the insignia of the kingdom embroidered in gold thread just over the left breast of his coat; his expression is calm, his gaze steady, no part of his appearance showing any of the drowsiness Haruto is bearing or the exhaustion that might be expected from what Haruto can only imagine has been a full night of effort. Haruto’s never seen the man before, though he’s obviously the primary point of contact for this interaction; their eyes meet, clear focus catching and holding sleep-hazed distraction, and the other speaks, his voice as precise and orderly as all the rest of him.

“Prince Haruto,” he says, the words snapping off against each other as if he is forming bricks of them to lay the groundwork for some grand construction. “Your presence is required in the throne room.”

“My presence?” Haruto repeats, trying to catch up with the logic of this conversation and finding his barely-conscious state unfit for the task. “What...why do you need me there?”

“Your highness,” comes another voice, lower and softer from over the messenger’s shoulder, in the shadows of the hallway. Haruto hadn’t seen the second person, hadn’t picked out the outline of another standing just behind the messenger before him; but he can feel the surge of relief rush through him just at the sound of that voice, as recognition settles into his chest well in advance of his vision catching up with the form he knows must be there. His attention abandons the messenger, slides up instead to seek out the angle of familiar shoulders and the dark of long hair; and there Takami is, stepping forward and into the flickering glow of the messenger’s candleflame. He looks exhausted, with lines of insomnia marking out the corners of his eyes and the bruised-in shadows under his lashes; his hair is loose around his shoulders, the usual smooth weight of it tangled to fall around the dark of a coat either borrowed or rumpled out of a good fit. But he’s smiling, relief curving soft over his mouth as he looks at Haruto, and Haruto’s chest aches with sudden pressure so great and all-encompassing that for the first moment he can’t even figure out if it’s happiness or tears bearing down so hard against the rhythm of his breathing. Takami’s smile slips wider, cracking into the beginning of a laugh in his throat, and then he blinks and Haruto can see his lashes shimmer in the faint illumination around them, can see the telltale shine of tears casting over the dark of the other’s gaze.

“My prince,” Takami says, and there’s a weight on the words, so much tender recognition Haruto is sure the messenger can hear it and equally sure he doesn’t care at all. “We’re sent to bring you to join us in the negotiations.” He takes a breath; when he lets it out it sounds ragged, like he’s letting the strain of weeks go on a single exhale. “We have come to terms for your release.”

Haruto is sure in a few minutes his tired mind will catch up to the words, will expand them out and against his awareness to take in the full breadth of their implication: freedom from his luxurious cell, a return home to the familiar spaces he aches for with all the dull hurt of homesickness, seeing the faces of his father and mother as he wasn’t sure he ever would again. Right now, with his mind struggling for coherency enough to make sense of what’s going on, it’s enough just to have Takami with him again.


	15. Truce

“Finally,” the Otorian diplomat says, still with her eyes firmly fixed on the page in front of her rather than up to meet Haruto’s gaze. “While the outskirts of the kingdom will remain under your father’s rule, upon such time as he is no longer willing or able to maintain his control rule will pass over you to confer instead upon Lord Shin all the powers and obligations of the monarchy.” She lets the document in her hands lower as she lifts her head to turn that same absolute attention on Haruto in front of her. “Are the terms clear?”

Haruto nods rather than giving voice to the fact that if anything they’re too clear about the negotiation that has occurred. It’s a sign of Otoria’s grace that they are leaving his father in power, an indication to the nobles who know and care who their king is that this is a peaceful takeover, that their rule will be a easy one to live under. It’s indicative of the strength lost, Haruto thinks, that it’s so clearly a point offered by Otoria rather than demanded by his father; the short duration of the negotiations makes far more sense, in the context of the terms reached.

The diplomat nods, a crisp action in direct odds to Haruto’s capitulating motion. “Good. Do you have any protests you wish to offer to this conclusion?”

Haruto’s chest tightens on a disbelieving laugh. “Does it make a difference if I do?” He meets the diplomat’s gaze, aware that his expression is too full of emotion and not caring enough to pull it under control. “If my opinion really made a difference I would have been in the negotiating room.”

The diplomat shrugs. “That’s likely,” she says, her tone as unsympathetic and unswerving as it was through the whole process of reading over the treaty. “Are you protesting?”

Haruto doesn’t need the touch of Takami’s fingers against his elbow to indicate to him what he should do; he knows well enough on his own, even with the sense of helplessness aching to pain inside his chest. He ducks his head into surrender, fixes his gaze on the floor at the diplomat’s feet as he takes a breath to work through the knot of unhappiness in his chest. “No, I’m not.”

“Very good.” The diplomat rolls the curve of the peace treaty back in on itself, fitting the scroll of the paper against her hands; when Haruto looks back up her attention is fixed to the movement she’s taking, her focus as pinned to it as if he has utterly ceased to exist. He blinks, uncertain of his next steps, but the diplomat is still watching her hands and shows no indication whatsoever of returning her gaze to him. He squares his shoulders back, steadies his position; when he clears his throat it’s with enough volume that the sound comes clear, even if his heart is pounding on self-conscious adrenaline.

The diplomat glances up at him. “Yes?”

Haruto frowns. “Do you...need me to do anything else?”

“No.” She turns back down to the scroll in her hands and resumes the steady movement of her fingers as she rolls it in on itself. “You’re free to go.”

Haruto blinks. It’s more than a little jarring to be left so entirely to his own devices; when he looks around the throne room it feels larger than it did a moment ago, as if it’s gaining scope just from his own uncertainty. “Go?” he repeats, feeling like gravity has entirely abandoned him and he might just float free into the air if he moves too quickly or carelessly. “What...where should I…”

“My prince.” Takami’s voice is steady, smooth and certain; when his hand tightens on Haruto’s arm Haruto can feel it like a tether, like a weight to hold him to the earth and steady out the panic rising to flicker against the inside of his chest. When he looks back Takami is watching him, his eyes still shadowed with exhaustion but his expression relaxed, freed of so much of the tension Haruto has become used to seeing there that he looks almost entirely different, as if the ease of the smile at his lips is enough to make him a wholly different person.

“Come with me,” Takami says, his hold urging Haruto in towards him as if Haruto needs the encouragement, as if he isn’t already turning just out of gratitude for having someone else’s lead to follow. Takami’s smile goes wider, his hand slides down to settle at Haruto’s elbow as he walks them away and towards the door at the far side of the room. “Your parents are anxious to see you.”

“Oh,” Haruto says, and suddenly his eyes are burning, he can feel his whole throat closing up with the threat of emotion too overwhelming for him to catch back and control. He stumbles as he tries to move faster, as adrenaline urges his feet to a pace the rest of his body can’t keep up with; but Takami is still holding to his arm, the support of the other’s grip is more than enough to hold Haruto upright, and Haruto is reaching to catch his hand over Takami’s, to press his fingers close against the heat of the other’s. He can’t figure out what he’s feeling, if it’s anxiety or happiness or dread; the combination seems to fluctuate in time with his breathing, shifting and resettling with every inhale he takes. “They must be disappointed.”

The shake of Takami’s head is certain, decisive, strong enough that Haruto can see his hair shift with the force of it. “No,” he says, and that’s certain too, steady enough to push aside Haruto’s uncertainty before he has any idea what to replace it with. “No, they’ve been anxious to see you.” Takami’s thumb slides against Haruto’s sleeve, pressing closer as he pauses them before the door and reaches to draw the handle forward; when he speaks the words are soft, pitched low for Haruto’s ears alone. “They’ll be glad to see you safe.”

There’s a softness in his voice, an affectionate tenderness that Haruto can feel settle in against his shoulders as if Takami had draped an arm around him. It breaks past some of that self-conscious unhappiness in him, at least enough to bring his attention back to Takami in front of him: the dip of his shoulders, the weight of his voice, the rumpled mess lack of sleep and stress has made of the usually smooth line of his hair. Haruto opens his mouth to say something, to give voice to the surge of emotion that sweeps up from the inside of his chest to ache at the back of his tongue, to urge his heart onto sudden, affectionate appreciation; and then “ _Haruto_ ” comes a voice, a tone so fraught with emotion Haruto doesn’t even recognize his father for a moment, and then he looks past the door and both his parents are getting to their feet, the usual royal composure that sits across their features scattered for wide-eyed gratitude that makes Haruto feel young again, as if he’s lost the last decade of his existence for a moment and is a child once more, with his parents reaching out for him after some near-miss accident out on the palace grounds.

“Father,” he says, his voice cracking to childish heights to match his sudden sense of being catapulted into the past. “Mother” and he’s stepping forward, and his parents are catching him in their arms, his father’s rough breathing as close to tears of relief as his mother’s. Haruto’s own eyes are spilling over with tears, the clarity of his vision giving way to emotion he can’t manage to hold back, and he was expecting disappointment and he was expecting judgment but he wasn’t expecting this, this warm embrace formed more of relief than of resignation. For a moment his shoulders are free of responsibility, are free of the burden of the title he held and the guilt at having so recently lost it; there’s just the comfort of his parents’ arms around him, and the sunbright glow of affection pressing hard against the inside of his chest.

Haruto doesn’t turn around to see Takami standing waiting by the doors. He doesn’t need to look to know Takami will be waiting for him anywhere he goes.


	16. Realm

“Keep up that pace.” Takami’s voice is clear in the chill of the air, bright and carrying so Haruto can hear it clearly at the other end of the practice field. “You have another five minutes. Continue.”

The new recruits are promising, Haruto thinks. They’re finding a rhythm for themselves without Takami having to call it out, aligning the rattling blows of their practice swords to those around them without any order to do so. It’ll be best to keep them together if possible, to let them work as a unit and develop the camaraderie that will serve them better in the field than any amount of drilled-in practice could provide. Takami leaves them to it, turning away after a few seconds of consideration to walk behind the row of trainees; he doesn’t look up to make eye contact with Haruto, but Haruto knows where he’s heading without needing to be told, can feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth even before Takami steps in to settle next to him and turn to look out over the recruits.

“This is the group I was telling you about,” Takami says in a low tone, only giving Haruto the briefest of sideways glances before he fixes his attention on the field in front of them. “What do you think of them?”

“Hm,” Haruto hums, making some show of looking over the recruits as if he hasn’t been watching them as closely as Takami since they arrived. “They make a good team even as they are. Have they ever worked together before?”

“Not officially,” Takami allows. “They’ve been living together for the last two years, since Otoria offered to take in anyone who needed training to make the minimum requirements for guardsmen. No proper training until this week, but they all know each other.”

“It’s paying off,” Haruto says. “I’ve never seen a new group work as smoothly as this one on their first day.”

“Yes,” Takami agrees. He’s still watching the recruits rather than Haruto; there’s the faintest quirk of a smile at his lips when Haruto looks sideways at him, something soft and warm that Haruto sees more and more often with each passing day. “They have a great deal of promise.”

“Yeah,” Haruto says, but he’s only half-listening; his attention is caught at the curve of Takami’s lower lip, at the angle of his jaw and the dark shadow of his hair left loose to fall in a smooth curtain against the back of his neck. He only intends to watch for a moment, only intends to let his gaze linger for a handful of seconds; but then Takami glances at him sideways, and his smile tugs wider, and Haruto knows he’s been caught well before he ducks his head in an attempt to hide his attention.

He’s expecting Takami to comment. Takami always comments, as surely as his voice is gentle on the words and the statement is more affectionate than judgmental. This time it’s not even relevant to the subject at hand, just a careful clearing of his throat and a soft “Your hair looks nice like that” low enough that Haruto isn’t even sure the new recruits will be able to notice that Takami has spoken at all.

“You think so?” Haruto asks without looking up from the attention he’s giving the toes of his boots. He lifts a hand to ruffle against the back of his neck, to run his fingers through the strands cut to unfamiliar closeness against his head. The sensation is still strange, as odd against his fingertips as the prickle against his scalp feels in the cool of the wind. “I’m not quite used to it yet.”

“I do think so,” Takami says, his voice as steady and certain as ever. When Haruto lifts his head to look sideways at him Takami is watching the field still, his gaze focused on the recruits in front of him but the corner of his mouth tugging at a tiny smile that Haruto is certain has nothing to do with the movement before him. “It makes you look like a soldier.”

Haruto snorts, laughter spilling from him before he can make even an attempt to call it back. “Rather than like a spoiled prince?”

Takami’s head does turn at that, his eyes going softer as he looks at Haruto next to him. “You were never spoiled, prince or no.”

“I dunno,” Haruto says. “I think a lot of people were easier on me than they could have been.” He shifts his weight fractionally, leaning into the opposite foot so he tips in towards Takami instead of away from him. The white of his uniform coat bumps against the heavy weight of Takami’s cloak hanging over his shoulders; Haruto can see Takami’s attention drop from his face to his side to catch and linger against his fingertips for a moment. “My weapons trainer was especially gentle with me.” Haruto stretches out his littlest finger over the tiny gap between them, just enough to brush against the angle of Takami’s knuckle; he can hear Takami’s breath catch in time with the heat of self-consciousness rising to what he’s sure is clear visibility across his face. He lifts his head to look out at the field, tries and fails to fight the urge to clear his throat; he’s sure he’s pinker than the wind can account for, but he doesn’t pull his hand away, even if his intentions _are_ left obvious by the motion. “Then again, I think he was a little bit in love with me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Takami’s hand shifts against Haruto’s; his littlest finger catches against the other’s to hook against the weight of it. “I imagine there are all kinds of people a little bit in love with you, my prince.”

Haruto can feel his face glow with the warmth of happiness, can feel the urge to duck his head to hide behind his hair even though it will do him no good with the strands cut close against his scalp as they are now. He keeps his head up instead, keeps his gaze fixed on the recruits in front of them as he tightens the angle of his pinky around Takami’s. “I’m not much of a prince without a kingdom, you know.”

“I know,” Takami says. “You’ll always be my prince, Haruto.”

Haruto’s blush is so dark this time that it burns across his face and pulls his chin down in helpless embarrassment as his restraint gives way to the warm spill of a laugh. But at his side Takami is flushing too, his smile sliding wider over his lips as the wind catches at the long strands of his hair, and between them his fingers are sliding over Haruto’s palm to fit the warmth of their hands close against each other.

After everything, Haruto thinks he’d rather have Takami at his side as an equal rather than as a subject.


End file.
